The game
by Vivien99
Summary: For some men humans are nothing more than goods, and their lifes a possibility for entertainment. Caught by slave traders, the four musketeers have to fight for their and their brothers lifes in some cruel ways. - The story is not corrected, so please excuse some mistakes. I will correct them once the story is completed.
1. Chapter 1

_A cruel smile forms on the scarred face, making the man look even more ugly than before, as he shows his yellow teeth. "Look what we got here." He watches each of his prisoners interested, a glint of recognation sparkles in his eyes. "Les inseperables." A ironic laugh fills the silence of the night as he takes a step towards the four men. Each one bound to a tree, hands around the trunk, gagged and feet also bound together. Someone who doesn't know Athos, would think all of this doesn't matter to him, as he stares at the man, who introduced himself as Moreau. D'Artagnan thinks he'd heard of him a few times. Moreau was more like a fairytell to him than an actual human as millions of storys about his cruel doings are rumurored in the streets of Paris. As the young man looks over to his brothers he knows, that they recognized the name too._

 _Porthos growls something against the nasty rag as he struggles against the unforgiving ropes. His wrists are already raw and bloody, but that doesn't stop the soldier from trying to get free. If he just could get his hands around Moreaus neck..._

 _Aramis on the otherside sits unusually still. His head still raised, as his pride won't allow him to show his pain and tiredness. Not only the long travel has left the musketeer exhausted, but one of the raiders stepped onto his wrist as they fought earlier. Due to the awkward angle of his arms now, the medic can't tell if it's just bruised or maybe broken - the only thing he knows is that it hurts like hell._

 _Moreaus attention shots to Athos as the Captain mubmles something against his rag. "Let him speak," the scarred man orders. One of the raiders frees Athos from his gag. "What do you want?" His voice rough thanks to the drought in his mouth._

 _Moreaus kneels down in front of the Captain, still wearing the ugly smile. "What I want? Just the money I will get when I sell you to Roussel. But as you ask like this... a little bit of fun would be nice, wouldn't it?"_

 _"What do you-" before Athos can speak further the rag is forced into his mouth again. Moreaus stands up slowly, looking over to his men. "It will take at least two days until Roussel is here to collect our prey, what do you think about some entertainent?" The crowd cheers and laughs, while the musketeers are left unknown what Moreaus has on his mind. With the information they already have, they at least know now why they've been caught. Roussel's name is even more famous than Moreaus - he's a trader and his goods are humans. Sold as slaves and prostitues, cheap workers._

 _Porthos, who tensed up the moment Roussels name fell, growls once again, his fury taking the better of him. This earns him Moreaus attention. "Let's start with this one. He seems very eager to break some bones." A few men are stepping out of the rows, three of them aiming their guns at the remaining musketeers, while two more are cutting the ropes around Porthos wrists and feet. As the colossus notices the danger his friends are in, he stops struggling and stands up slowy, his muscles still tensed._

 _"Let me explain." Moreaus starts as he catches the looks of each musketeer. "It can get quiet boring here, you know. So we like to have some little - let's call them - competitions. The rules are quite simple. You're not allowed to kill one of my men or hurt them seriously or you and your friends will be shot immediatly. You're not allowed to run away, of course. So the first part is always a fist fight. You against my men. You win when you can take down your opponents for at least ten seconds." That Moreaus uses the plural form spreads a feeling of unease between the musketeers._

 _"And remember - if one of my men is seriuosly hurt your friends will die." Porthos nods slowy, his fists clenched. He's pushed a few steps forward and a circle starts to form around him, three men entering it. None of them seems as muscular as Porthos, still each one is strong and they're three against one. "Let's begin," Moreaus grins and crosses his arms infront of his chest._

 _Athos' mind starts to race, as he wonders if Moreaus would allow his men to kill or serious hurt Porthos, as he's a precious good for them - on the other hand three musketeers will bring enough money to feed these raiders for weeks. They're porbably in no desperate need to sell all four of them unharmed or at all._

 _D'Artagnan starts to struggle against his ropes as he has to watch how Porthos is being hit and thrown to the ground. He feels weak, not being able to help his friend. He can only hope that he will win and that better sooner than later._

 _Aramis clenches his eyes shut as one of the men turns Porthos arm into an unnatural angle, causing a nasty sound to echoe through the woods. The musketeer growls in pain, before he manages to get free from the painful grip. His fists hit hard in his opponents face and stomach until the man falls to the ground. Then Porthos turns around and kicks the second one, so he has some time to deal with the third one without being attacked. He manages to wrap his hands around his throat and squeezes - the soldiers has to control himself to not kill the man, as he lets him fall to the ground unconcious. Now alone, the remaining opponent doesn't have a chance - soon he lies beside his companions on the ground, Porthos standing tall between them, his breath fast, his shoulder dislocated and his face bloody._

 _A slow clap from Moreaus let's d'Artagnan flinch. He takes a short look over his men, satisfied to see that they'll be fine in a few minutes, besides a few bruises. "Congratulations, you won." Suddenly, Porthos is being pushed against the tree he was bound to earlier. His head collides with the wood hard, letting the world around him spin. One of Moreaus men hits him into the stomach until he slides to the ground, groaning. Again his wrists and feet are bound, but he's spared the gag for the moment._

 _"Porthos," Aramis mumbles against the gag, concern rising in him as his friend doesn't react. His eyes are still open, but his look unfocused. "Porthos." The marksman tries to see if there's a wound on his brothers head, but doesn't manage to get the right angle._

 _"So let's start with the second round. Swordsfight. Normally, it would be one of you against one of my men, but I just thought about a better idea!" Moreaus shouts out like a proud child and walks over to Athos and d'Artagnan. "I have heard of you, Captain Athos. The great swordsman. And of you, the young d'Artagnan - already as good as his master. How about we find out who's actually the better one, today?" As the two are freed from their ropes, d'Artagnan shots Athos a questioning look - maybe they could fight and get the other two free in time, but the Captain shakes his head. Aramis and Porthos would be shot before they could hit the first man._

 _"So we have to change the rules a little bit. But I will explain them slowly, so you can understand them. You win by inflincting a cut to the other one which is at least ten centimeters long and deep enough to require stitching. And yes, I know you two wouldn't hurt each other, 'cause you're like brothers and so on," he rolls his eyes before continuing. "But the winner of you two will be punished by one of my men, so if you want to save your beloved brother from us you have to hurt him yourself, understand?"He grins and claps into his hands, proud of his own great idea._

 _"And never forget the guns against the heads of the other two." Moreaus ads as swords are given to the swordsmen. Once again d'Artagnan thinks about fighting but as he looks over to Aramis the barrel of a gun is pressed against his chin. "D'Artagnan," Athos looks at him with weary eyes, a glance of guilt in them. "I'm sorry." Athos raises his sword, and as Moreau gives the signal to start, he attacks right away. D'Artagnan manages to parry in the last second. "Whatever happens, no one will be angry, right?" The boy asks insecure._

 _"No one." Athos assures. "We do what we have to do." Another hard stroke let's d'Artagnan stumble. "You could just let me win, boy." Athos says after a few seconds, already gasping for air as the young musketeers is much faster than him. "You know I won't let that happen, Captain. And you won't let me win," he says, sadness in his voice. He doesn't wish to hurt Athos, but one cut will be less hurtful than a beating from these raiders._

 _Athos sighs, struggling to keep out of reach from d'Artagnan's sword. "You're sick, Moreaus!" The younger musketeer shouts. Athos uses this short moment of inattention to cut d'Artagnan at the side. The boy groans his hands clenching at the gaping wound. Athos lets his sword fall down immediatly. "I'm sorry mon ami." He hurries over to the younger man, who still seems more suprised than hurt. "No, I'm sorry." D'Artangan answers, guilt in his eyes as Athos is being pushed to the ground. The boy tries to struggle against the tight grip at his arms, but doesn't manage to get free. He's brought back to the trees and bound again, while the groaning of Athos is heard in the whole camp. The Captain feels fists and feet colliding with his body, legs and head until one especially hard kick send him to unconsciousness._

 _After a few minutes the men around Athos stop beating and kicking him and walk back, leaving him lying at the ground. D'Artagnan chokes back a cry, turning his head away from the gross view to Aramis. The medic tries to see the damage done to his Captain, but it's just too far away to recognize details so he turns to the young musketeer. His eyes fall down to the cut on the boy's side concerned and he muffles something against his gag, d'Artagnan can't understand. The medic sighs, being useless for his friends. "The wound needs stitiching," Porthos mumbles, who got his senses back a few minutes ago. "You understood him?" D'Artagnan asks suprised. Porthos laughs weakly and nods. "Have spent too much time with him together bound and gagged." He lets his head fall against the trunk exhausted. "Way too much."_

 _As Athos is brought back, Aramis attention turns to him again. Annoyed that he can't help and out of concern for his unconscious friend he starts to struggle against the ropes, ignoring the pain that spreads through his wrist. "Oh, someone's eager for his task." The marksman freezes as the eyes of the raiders fall onto him and his bounds are cut open. Immediatly he presses his hurt hand agaisnt his chest, his eyes never leaving Moreaus. "You're Aramis, right? The best marksman in France. My men have told me about you. You shot two flying bottles, blindfolded." Aramis remains silent, trying to figure out what his task will be._

 _On his sign, two men grap d'Artagnan and push him up. As he stands, they tie him up again. "This will probably be easy for you. You will shoot this apple," Moreaus holds up the fruit," from his head." With a grin he places it on the boys head._

 _"Rules are - as always - simple. You can try three times. Every bullet that doesn't hit the apple, the boy or the tree, will cause us to shoot one of your friends. And if you don't hit after the third chance the boy will be shot and you punished. Oh, and I nearly forgot - you will be blindfolded of course."_

 _Aramis gulps as he looks over to his brothers. "As this is a competition I demand a reward when I win." Moreaus laughs. "When." But then he nods, "What is it that you want?"_

 _Aramis thinks about asking for letting one of his brothers go, but he knows that won't be allowed. "I want you to give me the oppotunity to see to my brothers wounds. Hurt like this, they're uselees to you anyway." Moreaus seems to think about it for a few seconds before he agrees. "If you win, I will allow it."_

 _Aramis nods, before he walks over to the place from where he has to shoot. It's at least twenty meters away - normally a shot he would make without hesitating, but blindfolded and with a broken wrist he starts to doubt himself. Darkness surrounds him as the rag is bound around his head and a gun is placed in his hands. He thinks about shootinng with his left hand, but with the risk to kill his brother he decides to just live with the pain. His fingers feel numb as they grip around the hilt. "Te pido perdón, oh Dios mío, y pido perdón mientras deseas que tus siervos se vuelvan hacia ti. Te ruego, lava nuestros pecados, como corresponde a tu reino, y perdóname, como es digno de tu sublime reinado y de acuerdo con la gloria de tu poder celestial."(*) "Shoot now, it's getting boring." Moreaus sighs annoyed._

 _"I'm sorry, mon ami." Aramis mumbles before he pulls the trigger. He doesn't here a scream or grunt, but his brothers soft voice. "I'm fine, Mis. You hit the tree just beside my head."_

 _Aramis takes in a deep breath before he reajusts his aim. He feels as if his whole arm is shaking as another wave of pain shots through it. The marksman clenches his teeth together before pulling the trigger again. This time, his heart stops as d'Artagnan let's out a pained groan. Aramis nearly lets his weapon fall down as he tries to take the rag from his eyes. "No." Moreaus voice lets him shudder and he stops in his movements. "Just grazed my neck." The boy explains, obviuosly in pain. Aramis starts to feel dizzy at the thought about how close he was to killing his brother._

 _"Your last chance, musketeer." Aramis gulps, aiming for a third time. Porthos seems to hold in his breath. He hadn't had any doubts that Aramis would miss, but after two failed chances he's not as secure as before. He hadn't notice the swollen wrist before, but now as the marksman holds the gun with shaking fingers, he does._

 _One last shot disturbs the silence, the apple shatters into thousad pieces, but Aramis doesn't know that. Exhausted, he falls down to his knees shaking. The world around him spins, until he looses his senses completly._

 _He wakes up minutes later, confused and not bound. As he remembers what happens he sits up panically, just to calm down the moment he sees d'Artagnan alive. "Oh god, I'm so sorry, mon ami." Aramis rushes over to the young musketeers, looking at the wound at his neck concerned. "I shouldn't have hit you."_

 _"It's okay, 'Mis. Nothing happened and you did quite good. They brought you your reward." D'Artagnan nods toward a small medical kit, which lets Aramis sigh in relief._

 _With skilled hands he has d'Artagnan's wounds cleaned and stitched in a few minutes, before he turns to the still unconscious Athos. There are just a few wounds that he can tend too, which concerns him even more. As he carefully touches the Captains torso he feels that at least two rips are broken, his skin is a mix of blue and green. "They didn't broke through his lungs, but if he should move..." Aramis doesn't dare to continue speaking and just goes on with his routine._

 _Soon, Porthos head is also bandaged and the smaller cuts cleaned. "I need to fix the shoulder," the medic announces. Porthos nods, preparing for the pain that will defenitly come._

 _"On three." Aramis takes his brohters arm and shoulder into his hands gripping tight. "One." Porthos closes his eyes. "Two." Aramis pulls at the arm causing his friend to scream in pain. Between ragged breaths Porthos asks:"Didn't you say at three?"_

 _"It was better this way," the medic say exhausted, pressing his wirst against his chest. Porthos notices, sending him a concerned look. "You should see to this, too." Aramis smiles weakly, shaking his head. "It's need to be setted properly and splinted. With just one hand I won't make it. This will need to wait."_

 _The moment he has finished, Aramis is dragged away and bound to the tree again._

 _"So, what's the plan now?"_

 _* Translation: I ask your forgiveness, O my God, and beg your pardon as you desire your servants to turn to you. I beseech you, wash away our sins, as befits your reign, and forgive me, as it is worthy of your sublime reign and in accordance with the glory of your heavenly power._


	2. Chapter 2

By now the moon has replaced the sun, most of the raiders are asleep or sit around the fire talking and laughing. Athos still isn't awoken, leaving his brothers worried. Despite their exhaustion and pain none of the three dares to close his eyes, fearing one of his brothers could be gone when he opens them again.

"We can't just sit around and wait." Porthos hisses frustrated. "And what do you think we should be doing instead?" D'Artagnan leans his head against the tree behind him, trying to see Porthos, but the view is blocked through Aramis' body. "Ripping out the lungs of these bastards." A rough laugh leaves Aramis' dry lips. "Believe me brother, I would love to help you with that - but if you haven't managed to rip these ropes apart in the past minutes, I fear that this will have to wait." This causes Porthos just to growl angrily, as he knows that the marksman is right.

"We should try to get some sleep, who knows what tomorrow will happen." The youngest of the musketeers suggests, earning approving nods from his comrades. "I will take first watch," Aramis announces, knowing well that he won't sleep this night anyway. To his surprise no one tries to argue with him, but the other two rest their heads against the trees and close their eyes.

He guesses one hour went by since his brothers fell to sleep, as two raiders are making their way over to the musketeers. Aramis decides not to wake the others as long as it's not necessary and keeps his eyes fixed onto the men coming up to him.

"What do you want?" He hisses as the two stop in front of the four musketeers, smug grins on their faces. "Nothing that should interest you... although I will add you to our list." The thicker one of the men answers, the scent of sweat reaching the marksmans nose. "Maybe bit too old, but pretty face." The other one, thin and with way too small eyes, ads. Aramis gulps as the raiders kneel in front of d'Artagnan, guessing what they're planning to do to their youngest member.

"Don't." He says, heart beating fast in his chest. The thin one looks over to the marksman questioning. "Don't touch him or-" "Or what?" The fat one asks laughing. Aramis doesn't answer as he has nothing to threat them with. He closes his eyes, desperate to search for words to stop these bastards from what they're about to do. Bored by the marksman, the raiders turn back to the sleeping swordsman. Small-Eyes starts to fumble with d'Artagnans belt while the fat one opens his own trousers. "Stop! Oh god, let that poor boy alone!" Aramis starts to struggle against his ropes and wonders how the others can sleep through this. He thinks about waking them but feels as if it would be better letting them sleep - there is nothing they could do anyway and d'Artagnan shouldn't know what's nearly happening to him.

Unflustered, the harassers keep undressing themselves and the young man. "Wait! I -" Aramis gulps, his breath way too fast, "Take me and let him alone. He is inexperienced anyway." This earns him at least some attention from the men, who seem to think about the suggestion. The fat one grins. "What stops us from taking both of you?" Aramis opens his mouth but closes it again, realising that they're right.

As the raiders get back to work, Aramis pulls harder against his ropes. His wrist shoots wave of agony through his body, but he ignores it, pulling harder. Beside him he notices some movement as d'Artagnan awakes. The boys eyes are wide open, looking shocked at the two men in front of him. He tries to get away from them, pressing himself against the tree. "What- S-stop." He tries to kick one of them, but his legs are being pushed to the ground.

Aramis pulls even harder, a loud snap ringing in his ears. His hands slip free, a hot agony filling his body as his broken wrists is being more damaged. For a short moment he can't do anything other than concentrate on the pain. Then, as he feels his finger throb and his senses coming back to him, he manages to open the ropes around his legs, just in the moment the harassers have noticed his freeing attempt.

Aramis stumbles to his feet, his right hand hanging useless by his side. Before the raiders can even stand up, he kicks the fat one into the face sending him directly to unconsciousness. The Thin one manages to get up in time and shouts for help, before he punches the marksman into the face. D'Artagnan keeps trying to get free, but is helpless agaisnt his restraints. All the shouts have even woken Porthos who shouts for his brother, desperate t help him.

The marksman manages to stroke his opponent down, but soon he's overwhelmbed by the other bandits who came to help. He feels fists collect with his face, causing the world around him to spin. As he stops to fight against his opponents, they bind him to the tree again, this time making sure he won't be able to get free again. Aramis let's his head fall to his chest, trying to concentrate to take slow and regular breaths.

"Hey 'Mis, are you okay?" Porthos asks, his voice full of worry. "'M fne." The Medic mumbles, not daring to open his throbbing jaw. Knowing that his friend is lying, but that it would be useless to talk about it, Porthos bends forward to see d'Artagnan looking at Aramis with guilty eyes. "What happened?"

The boy is ripped out of his thoughts by the familiar deep voice, gulping. "I - I'm not sure. As I woke up, they - these two they were - they were... undressing me. Aramis he - he somehow manged to get free. I - I think I heard his wrist snap or something, maybe dislocated it to get out of the ropes." D'Artagnan shudders at the thoughts, fear clinging to his heart as he thinks about what nearly happened to him. He knew things like this happened, not only to women but to boys and men too, but he never thought about that happeneing to him.

Porthos is silent for a few minutes, before speaking again. "We will look after you, boy. Don't worry, something like this won't everr happen to you as long as we're alive. Promise."

D'Artagnan nods, not completly beliving his brother. He knows that they'll do everything to protect him, but there maybe will be times even musketeers are helpless.

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

In the early morning hours live comes back to the camp. To their surprise even water is brought to the musketeers. Not much, just a few sips for each one, but it's better than nothing. "How's Athos?" Aramis asks and looks over to d'Artagnan who sits closest to their Captain. "Still unconcious. But I can see his chest moving, he's alive." But for how long. "And how are you?" The boy asks worried, as he notices the swollen eye of the marksman and the green bruises around his jaw. "Have been worse."

"And you?" Aramis notices that the boy's belt is still open, his shirt ripped out of his trousers. D'Artagnan looks away ashamed, shrugging. "Nothing really happened, right?" Aramis sighs, not wanting to think about how the swordsman has to feel. "Right. Nothing happened."


	3. Chapter 3

Porthos glances over to the tent where the bandits are storing the weapons they aren't wearing. The musketeers swords and guns are porbably there too. "If we just could get there somehow," he sighs, not seeing a possibility to get free unnoticed. There are just too many guards watching them. "Even with weapons we wouldn't stand a chance." Aramis closes his eyes exhausted. The lack of food and water and starting to get noticable. "He's right. I mean they managed to capture us as we were fully armed. And a group of four." D'Artagnan looks over to Athos, sitting crumbled and motionless against the tree, the ropes around his body the only thing holding him upright. A feeling of unease starts to rise in the boy, his heart beat ringin in his ears. "Do you mean he will wake up again?" Big eyes looking over to the groups Medic, who is just as helpless as the others. Aramis shrugs, not daring to speak out his thoughts. Athos is now unconscious for nearly a day. Without water or food he will jsut get weaker with every hour, the chances of him waking up shrinking. He could even have internal bleedings and no one would now.

"Only god will now," he sighs, leaving his brothers frustrated. "There's no such god," Porthos hisses. "Or why would he allow things like this to happen? Good men are dying, children and women assaulted, families are teared apart. If there is a god he is cruel and heartless."

Aramis gulps, his eyes facing the ground. He'd thought about this many times, too. But he doesn't want to think about a world without a god, without someone protecting them. No, he probably has his reasons why he doesn't protect mankind from all horrors. "We will see his reasons once he wants us to. Until then, we will have to wait and have faith in his grace." Porthos snorts contemptuously, shaking his head in disbelief. "Better pray we end in heaven when he lets us die a wrechted death."

"Enough!" D'Artagnan glares at his brothers, fury and annoyence sparkling in his eyes. "We're all tired, angry and concerned but it won't help us if we fight each other. We need to fight these bastards not our own brothers." The boys words leaves the older musketeers stunned, thinking about it ebfore nodding in agreement. "Sorry, I'm just frustrated." Porthos finally says quietly.

"Maybe we can get free when they hand us over to Roussel. They need to cut the ropes and if all of us attack in the same moment we could-" "Yeah we could kill maybe five of them until at least one of us dies. We need to get the weapons first."

"Or we sneak off in the night. We take out the guards, while the others are sleeping and just run off. Until they notice that we're gone, we will be far away. Aramis, you already managed to get free from your ropes once. Why shouldn't we make it a second time?"

"I could carry Athos, my shoulder isn't that bad anymore." Porthos suggests, ignoring the strict look he gets from Aramis as he knows that the colossus still has to be in great pain.

"We can try. Maybe we succeed, but if not..." Aramis sighs, wishing he could rub his temple. "We will make it."

Hours went by with the boys trying to loosen the ropes, chafing their wrists. They tried to observe the guards routines, to find out which moment could be perfect to escape. It's late afternoon as galloping horses are heard. "At least fifteen."

"Get the prey ready! Moreaus orders a few of his men, before walking towards the sound of the horses. "I thought Roussel would come tomorrow." D'Artagnan asks whispering, causing the other two to shrug. "Maybe he wasn't that far away than thought."

The bandits cut through the ropes and haul up the sitting men. "Wake up." One raider commands and kicks Athos into his side as he doesn't respond. "Ey!" Aramis struggles against the tight grip aorund his arm. "Leave him alone, he's injured. He won't wake just because you want to." "Moreaus won't be happy." The bandit says to one of his comrades.

"Not our fault. We will just leave him here, until the boss says something else."

With a nodge in the back, the musketeers are forced forward, stumbling over their own legs as they're numb after sitting for so long. Every now and then Porthos eyes wadner over to the weapon tent, trying to figure out if he could get there somehow, now that he isn't bound. But his hopes are destroyed as the horsemen are entering the camp. Moreaus is talking to the first rider, a greay haird beardy man who drank too much wine in his life. "I'm in a hurry, Moreaus. Our ship leaves in a few times and we need to get the goods there in time. Just show me what you got and we can leave."

Moreaus grins, helping the old man from his horse. "You won't be dissapointed, Roussel. We captured some quite good men." The two leaders walk over to where the musketeers are held by their guards. As they come closer, the bandits push their prisoners to the ground. While d'Artagnan and Porthos manage to catch them in time, Aramis broken wrist just gives in and he falls into the mud, causing the raiders to laugh. Grunting, the marksman gets up, kneeling between his brothers.

Moreaus and Roussel stop in front of them. "Where's the fourth one?" "Unconscious." One guard answers. "Get him here nevertheless."

"As you can see they're young and strong man. King's musketeers," a triumhpantly smile apperas on Moreaus face. "The boy is pretty too, quite varied possibilietes to use him."

D'Artagnan doesn't dare to look up, instead he faces the ground. His knees suddenly feel weak and his ahnds are shaking as pictures from the previous night are rushing through his mind. He hears Porthos growl and Aramis whispering something offending. He just looks up as something - or better someone - is thrown onto the ground beside him. Still lifeless, Athos lies beside him, not looking any better than before.

"What am I supposed to do with a cripple?" Roussel asks, looking at Athos with disgust. "We will give him to you as a gift. When he gets fit again, he will be just as useful as the other three to you." "I don't want him, he's just a burden. We won't give him a space in one of our few wagons. Who can't walk, can't come with us."

"And what about the others? How much do give me for them?"

Roussel grins, looking over the three musketeers. "Enough."

As the leaders turn around to speak about more details in private, Aramis tries to rush to his feet but is being held down. "What will happen with Athos?"

Moreaus turns around, eyeing the marksman with a grin. "Craws, bears... whatever animal will like the taste of his corpse."

Now it's d'Artagnan who struggles against the guards, rage boiling in him. "You can't just let him die! He will come with us, we will carry him." This causes the leaders to laugh.

Roussel shrugs. "Do what you have to do. But if you fall behind or something you all will be punished, remember that." D'Artagnan nods slightly before he turns his attention to Athos, who's breath is still slow and weak.

The guards only bother to bound their wrists again and sit down a few meters away from the musketeers. Aramis uses the opportunity to look after Athos' wounds. "I don't knw why he's unconscious for so long. Maybe a blow to the head at the wrong place... or something inside him is injured. I don't know." He sighs, feeling useless as he can't help his Captain. "When we want to carry him we need to make sure that his ribs won't push through his lungs."

"Let me take a look at your hand now." Porthos points at Aramis wrist which he helds up against his chest instinctively. The medic sighs, holding his arm out for Porthos. "What do I need to do to fix this?"

Aramis hates himself for knowing that it needs to be fixed soon or he could loose his hand, because he alsow knows how much this procedure will hurt. "You need to feel it, where the bones are broken. There are a few miner breaks, but you need to concentrate on the big one. Then, push until the bones are in their right place again. After that it needs to be splinted." Porthos nods, sweat already forming on his brow as he touches along the shattered wrist.

"On three, okay?" Aramis nods, closing his eyes. "One, two-" Aramis can't help but scream as his bones chafe on each other and pob back into their places. He breathes fast as the throbbing pain lets his fingers go numb. "You said on three." "THought it would be easier this way," Porthos smiles slightly, laying and arm around his brothers shoulders who still tries to control the agony he is in. D'Artagnan has gathered two sticks in the meanwhile, placing them gently at both sides of Aramis arm and wrapping them with a part of his cloak.

 **Thank you for all your lovely reviews.**


	4. Chapter 4

"C'mon stand up!" One of roussels mens orders, eyeing the musketeers annoyed. It's already late in the afternoon and none of them has expected that they would leave the camp today. It will be dark in a few hours and they won't get very far till then. Nevertheless Roussel has apparently other plans.

As they stand in a row, chains are placed around their ankles and connected with manacles aorund their wrists. The chains are just long enough to place the hands on your hips and lift them up to the chest, the ones around their legs are shorter, making walking hard. "Go." The guard pushes Aramis into the direction, causing him to stumble and nearly fall over.

As Porthos is about to throw Athos over his shoulders, the Medic protests. "No! If you do it like this you risk that his rips will move. You will have to carry him bridestyle." Porthos huffs at the comment but follows it, taking his Captain into his arms. "I will take him if he get's too heavy," d'Artagnan suggests, before he follows Aramis.

"How are your wounds healing?" The marksman looks over to their youngest, while his chains rattle with every move. "Quite good I think. No symptoms of infection or similiar." Satisfied the medic nods before he looks back to Pothos who's carry Athos. "Be careful, your shoulder still isn't completly healed. We can take him for some time, too."

"No jabbering, Ladies." One of the bandits, who are allb mounted up by now, kicks into d'Artagnan's side, causing the young man to groan in pain. Instictivly he reaches to the side and lifts his shirt, relieved to see that the stitches are still sealed. Aramis has followed every move and shots an angry look to the guard. "Dead or injured we have no value for you."

"Oh, it's so nice that you worry for us. But I can comfort you. We have enough slaves, three more or less isn't that important."

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

It's already getting dark as thesmall convoy stops at a clearing. Roussel looks around satisfied, before he dismounts. "We will camp here. The others will reach us soon."

So the musketeers are dragged towards a few rocks and pushed down. "Don't even think about running away, our bullets are faster than you." The guard says before he throws some bread and a waterskin into the dirt.

"Try to get something in Athos." Aramis says as Porthos lays the Captain carefully down. D'Artagnan takes the skin and lifts the head of the injured man, slowly forcing some liquid into his mouth. Fortunately the reflexes of Athos' body are still inteact and he swallows what's given to him. Then the other three take a sip or two too, careful to not take too much as they don't know when they will get water again. Sharing the bread between the three of them, they lean against the rock exhausted. "We need to get out of this before we reach the ships. Once on them we will have no chance to escape." Porthos says before taking a bite from his piece of bread. He sighs relieved, as his growling stomach finally gets some food.

"We could try to fall back tomorrow. Maybe the guards won't be so careful and we get some time to get away." "Or we escape tonight." Aramis looks around, trying to make out where the guards are placed.

"We could make it," he says finally. "Then it's settled. Let's try and get some sleep, we will have to wait some more hours anyway."

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Gently Porthos shakes his brothers. "Hey, wake up. I think it's about time."

As d'Artagnan looks around the camp he notices that there are more people then before. Men, women, children, who were just as abduckted as them, are sleeping on the hard ground. At the other side of the camp some tents are build and a fire lit, bandits sleeping around it. There are just a few guards left, eyeing the sleeping slaves uninterested.

"Porthos, you stay here with Athos. D'Artagnan an I will take care of the guard there, then you follow, okay?" The tall man isn't really happy that he has to stay behind but he knows that it's the best option as he can't fight with Athos in his arms.

The two musketeers crawl around the rock silently, before walking up the hillside to the next guard. Sheltered from the dark they make it to the top unnoticed. Careful not to make too loud noises, d'Artagnan wraps his chains aorund the guards throat, while Aramis holds his hand onto his mouth to keep his screams muffled. As the man stops to struggle, d'Artagnan lays him onto the ground and waves to Porthos as a sign to follow. It's a lot harder to get up the hillside with a man in the arms, but after some time Porthos makes it too.

No alarm yet.

The four musketeers vanish into the darkness and into the shelter of the woods. Running as fast as possible they don't care about hiding their traces. They need to get away from this place.

Out of breath, d'Artagnan stops after some time. "Are we just leaving these people behind?" He asks the question running through his mind since hours. Porthos huffs, laying Athos down. "We will get help, we will try everything to get Moureaus and Roussel and free these poor people. But now, we're just not enough men." Aramis nods in agreement, sitting down in the grass. He once again checks on their Captain, sighing. As he doesn't find any change of the mans situation, he lifts his shirt searching for some signs of internal bleedings but ot finding any. "Maybe he just needs some time and rest." Gently he brushes the hair out of Athos face. "we will get you home, mon ami. I promise."

"He won't die like this," Porthos agrees.

The sound of hooves let the men shot up. Porthos takes Athos again before they start running again. "If we split up, maybe one of us can escape and get help?"

"I'm not leaving you!" Porthos hisses, trying to keep up with his brothers.

"Athos needs to get to a real physician or else e won't make it." Aramis hates to make this decision, but there is no other option he sees. "Whateevr happens Porthos, jsut get him to safety. For his and ours sake." One shared look with d'Artagnan and the two faster men are running into different directions, making sure to be loud enough to be heard. Porthos curses. For a moment he thinks about following one of them, but he knows that Aramis was right. Why has this man always to be right?!

So, Porthos runs again, taking turns every now and then and being as silent as possible. Soon, the sound of hooves are gone.

Aramis is the first one to be found. With a kick against his head from one of the bandits, he's taken down. Roughly bound onto the back of a horse, he lies on his stomach his head throbbing.

D'Artagnan is caught soon after him the same way. "The cripple and the black man are still missing." One of the guards says, letting the two musketeers sigh out relieved. "It's late, let's get back to camp. We've searched the whole area. We will survive without them too."


	5. Chapter 5

Aramis moans as he's thrown from the horse careless. The persons around him blurr into each other and he doesn't even notice how he's bound against a tree. He blinks some time, trying to clear his view with just a little bit of success. He watches how d'Artagnan is dragged from the other horses back, a few guards cursing others laughing. "Should teach him a lesson." "Punish them." "Pretty boy." Aramis tries to focus on the conversations around him but just manages to pick up a few pieces, still a little dazed. "Just don't injure his face."

Closing his eyes for a brief second before opening them again helps him to see better finally. D'Artagnan looks over to the medic concerned, as his hands are tied to two trees, spreading them until it stings in his shoulders. "Aramis," the boy asks confused as he tries to see what's happening behind his back, but can't completly see what Aramis does. The medic gulps, struggling against his chains. "You can't do this." He mumbles, every sound making his head pound even harder and every move making him feel dizzy. "Let him alone."

The guards just laugh, as one of them gets closer to the young musketeer. He startles as his shirt is ripped apart, slowly understanding what's going to happen. Aramis struggles harder and starts to scream very unholy things at the guards, cursing them and wishing for them to go to hell. One of them get's annoyed by their audience and puts a rag into his mouth, binding another one around his head to stop hi from spitting the rag out. Aramis doesn't stop with his curses, even though they aren't understandable by now.

"It's okay," D'Artagnan mumbles before he looks down. He can't see into his brothers eyes, can't let him see the pain as the whip makes it's first contact with his flesh. The boy manages to stayy silent, tensing his muscles. A second stroke to his back opens the flesh, making the musketeer hiss. Aramis' shouts get louder, his struggling harder as a third stroke let's d'Artagnan moan slightly. The boy keeps his eyes closed the whole procedur as he concentrates on staying as silent as possible. He doesn't want to give them this pleasure and spare himself the humilitation.

After the seventh stroke his back is bloody mess and his breath fast. As his left hand is unbound he nearly falls to the ground but manages to catch himself in the last moment. At least they spare him the pain and don't bind him to the tree, so d'Artagnan can lie at his side. Again, Aramis tries to get free to help his injured brother but is useless. He watches the bloody back of his friend, knowing that scars will be left on his still so untouched skin. He wants to apologize that he couldn't help, that it was not him but the gag makes it impossible. Meanwhile, d'Artagnan lays still staring at some point on the ground.

"That's what happens when you don't play after our rules." One of the guards, Aramis had already forgotten, hisses and kicks against the Medics leg to support his point. And if looks could kill, this man would be roasting in hell by now. One last time Aramis trys to get out of his chains but stops after a few seconds knowing that it's pointless.

Instead he tries to get the boys attention, mumbling words against his gag.

Slowly, careful to not disturb his back any more, d'Artagnan turns on his other side, facing the marksman with weary eyes. Once again, Aramis wishes to be able to apologize, to talk to the yung musketeer and say him that everything will be fine, but instead they just look at other in silence until d'Artagnan closes his eyes.

Aramis tries to stay awake as long as possible, not wanting to let his brother alone, but soon the pain in his head and tiredness overwhelm him too.

The first thing he notices is the ongoing waggle, making his head throb harder with every bounce. He feels like flying, but soon notices a tight grip on his body. He suddenly feels panic rise in him. He needs to escape the darkness surrounding him and he needs to get free out of this painful grip. He needs to stop this awful bouncing. He hears loud breaths, steps as if someone was running. He needs to see. Athos forces his eyes open just to shut them a moment later as the sunlight seems to burn out his eyeballs. "Stp that, leave me alne." He mumbles, his hands searching rfor something to punch or push but find nothing but air. One again he tries to open his eyes and manages to held them open for longer. After a few seconds they adjust to the light, letting him recognize the blue of the horizon and some white clouds. He hears something dull, it kind of echoes in his head making it throb even harder. It feels as if a hammer blows onti his skull again and again and it sounds like too. But under all the hammering he thinks to hear something deeper, something calming. A voice maybe, but he can't understand what it's saying, the hammer is too loud.

He turns his head slowly to the right, seeing open fields, bushes and some trees. Birds flying around until they vanish in the distance. Then, he turns his head to the left, surprised to see nothing but brown. He blinks, recognizing that it's a leathered jacket. Again there's this dull sound between all the pounding. He looks up the jacket just to meet a familiar face smiling down at him, even though his brows are drawn together. He sees Porthos lips moving but doesn't quite hear him. He feels tired and closes his eyes again. The bouncing annoys him, his hand finding his brothers chest, gently slapping against it. "Stop it."

Suddenly the bouncing stops and he feels hard ground under his back. He sighs out relieved as the pounding gets weaker. "... safe... stay awake... Athos." The captain forces his eyes open one more time, wishing he hadn't. "Head hurts." He frowns, wondering what happened that he is in so much pain. "Tired."

Porthos nods, putting his jacket beneath Athos head. "Stay awake a little longer, will you? You're thristy, don't you?" Athos frowns, before he nods slightly. He is indeed. "There's a creek just a few meters away, but I have no skin. I will need to carry you there, is that okay?" Athos opens his mouth to protest but as notices how dry it actually is. He wonders why he can't walk there himself, but as he thinks about sitting up it jsut won't work. He suddenly feels even more tired. "I take that as a yes." The bouncing starts again, making him moan in agony. Fortunately it's for just a few moments, until Porthos lays him into the grass gently. Athos feels big hands behind his head and opens his eyes again, wondering when he has closed them. Porthos carefully leads the Captains head to the clear water of the creek until the man can take a few sips. "Slow." He soothes and lays Athos back as he thinks he has enough for the moment. "What happened?" Athos finally asks, still not knowing why he is in such circumstances. "Where are the others?" Why isn't Aramis there to care for him?

"You don't remember?" Porthos seems concerned as he sits down beside him. "We were ambushed by slave traders." He speaks slowly, taking in his Captains facial expression. There's something, Athos thinks. It seems... familiar, but he can't quite touch it. "Moureaus was their leader. He wanted to have some entertainment." "I hurt d'Artagnan." Porthos nods slighty. "You had to. You were the one we had to worry about then. You remember the rules?" Athos searches in his mind for memories, finding any pictures and sentences floating through it. "Yeah, I think I do." Pleased Porthos smiles down at him. "That's good. So do you remember the beating?"

"It was my reward for winning." Athos remembers, his head starting to pound harder again. "You went out after that, didn't came back to consciousness till now."

"For how mmany hours?" Porthos huffs, leaving the Captain confused. "Nearly two days, Athos. Got us quite scared, ya know."


	6. Chapter 6

"Do you think they're save?" D'Artagnans asks as he tries to focus on not stumbling over the chains around his ankles. "They weren't caught and I'm sure Porthos will try everything to get Athos to some physician." Aramis smiles gently and notices the worried look in the boy's eyes. "Hey, listen. Everything will be fine, okay? It's not the first time we are kidnapped, not the first time some bandits are making our lifes hard and it won't be the last time. But we are musketeers and musketeers don't die easily."

D'Artagnan looks up from his feet and over to his friend. Aramis jaw is starting to look normal again, even though his wrist is still swollen and blue. "It's not death I'm scared of." The young musketeer looks away as he starts to feel sick. Aramis shouldn't see him like this. Weak and vulnerable. But chained, and his bare back covered with cuts, thristy and tired, he is just like that. He hears a sigh beside him and looks back to the marksman who clenches his fingers around the crucifix around his neck. "I wish I could promise you to save you from all harm, but I can't, mon ami. I can promise you to do everything to protect you and keep you away from these bastards, but as much as I wish it would be different - I'm just as helpless as you are."

D'Artagnan suddenly feels like a child who needs to be protected from all the bad in the world. But he is not. He is just as strong as his brothers and just as able to protect himself and others as they are. It's just this situation, the men around him, the commments that are spit towards him, the looks thrown over to him and the ugly grins that make him feel exposed. "Porthos will be back to get us out of this before anything happens, I'm sure. As much bad happened to us, in the end we were always lucky. Why should it be different this time, hm?" The boy nods, eventhough Aramis' words can't take the sick feeling in his stomach.

"SILENCE!" One guard pokes d'Artagnan with a stick into the back, which courses the musketeer to stumble and hiss as another wave of pain runs through his body. He feels Aramis hand around his arm, steadying him so he won't fall. The medic wants to sooth d'Artagnan, talk to him and distract him from all of this but the fear that the boy will be hurt further, stops him. So the two musketeers remain silent for hours as they stumble through the forests and fields. Every now and then one of the prisoners collapses and is either left behind to die, killed right at the spot or dragged at the feet. One time a woman is whipped as she walks slower to breastfeed her babyson. Disgust is written in Aramis' eyes as he looks over to his friend. "You have to hold on till we camp, can't afford to let you whipped a second time." He mutters as quite as possible. Aramis has notices the stumbling and weak walk of d'Artagnan already a while ago. He had also not overseen the sweat running down the boys bare torso or the heavy breathing. Aramis himself does't feel very well neither, as his head still throbs with each step - but it is bearable. He is more concerned because of his wrist who seems to getting worse instead of better.

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

"Hey, it's not the right time to sleep, brother." Porthos frowns as he fastens his walk once again. He needs to get Athos to safety soon. The Captains eyes flutter open, unfocused. "So tired." "I need you awake, do you hear me? You need to let your beautiful eyes open for me. We need to get out of this damned forest and get help four you and the others. You hear? D'Artagnan and Aramis are still in danger ad we have not much time left. We need to get help, save them."

Athos nods slowly, eventhough he only heard half of the words Porthos had spoken. He still heard the urgency in his brothers voice. "Save them," he repeats mumbling and tries to take a glance around to make out where they are, but everything is blurred.

"Exactly. We need to save them and for that you need to stay awake." Porthos repeats, scared that his brother could close his eyes one more time and would never open them again. In the night a fever has taken hold of the already weakened body of their Captain, leaving Porthos even more worried. His shoulder burns from carrying so much weight for such a long time, but he can't stop - he just can't. He needs to get to a village and find help and all that fast enough to save his brothers before they're brought to the ships. Their time is running up and he fears Athos' too.

"Why is it always me that needs to save your asses." He curses frustrated. "Because you're Porthos." Athos looks up to him with glassy his, a weak smile on his dry lips. The bigger soldiers laughs and shakes his head. "You're so nice when you're sober."

Hours later, there is finally light at the end of the tunnel - or more likely forest. Porthos lets out a shout of joy that surely can be heard a mile away. With new found energy, he runs out of the woods to meet an open area with fields and just a few trees every now and then. In the distance something disturbs the fields, splitting them. "A road! And a road means a village on it's end." Porthos joy overwhelms him again as he carries his Captain further through the high grass. "Can I sleep now?" Athos gives everything to keep his eyes open but they seem wo heavy.

"Not yet. Hold on for a bit longer, okay? We nearly made it." Athos nods slowly, taking in thhe view in front of him. "I'm not seeing houses," he notices quietly. Porthos doesn't answer but keeps on walking. It can be hours or even days till the next village or at least farm comes up, but that's nothing Athos should worry about. He just has to keep his eyes open for gods and Porthos sake.

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

As one of Roussels men announces that they are 'there', an uneasy feeling spreads in the musketeers chests. They didn't walk long enough to have already reached the port, Aramis thinks. It would be at least half an day of walking more, if not more. Or maybe they already walked further than he thought.

"The strong men first!" One of the guards jumps from his horse and walks through the rows of men and women, eyeing everyone sceptically. Every now and then he takes a man and pushes him to the side. As he reaches the soldiers eight men have already gathered by the other guards. The bandit graps Aramis tightly at the shoulder and pushes himm towards the other men, before he turns to d'Artagnan. "Not him!" Roussel yells, coming over. "I have different plans for this one."

The guard seems to understand and grins at the boy before he goes on. Aramis shuffles nervously. He can't risk to get seperated from d'Artagnan. But what could he do that won't get any of them into danger? He growls frustrated, trying to think of away but there is just no way out of this.

Half an hour later the prisoners are seperated into smaller groups. There are the "Strong men" as Aramis, "the ugly women" wo are probably sold to do works in the house or on fields. And then there is a third group of mostly young and beautiful women, one teenage boy and d'Artagnan. Roussel points at them. "We will sell them first."

As Aramis has to watch how the small group is lead away and into the shelter of some smaller mountains, he can't hold back anymore. "You can't do this!" He tries to run after them, but a guard pushes him against a tree. "You little bastards," Aramis curses as he tries to get free but just earns a stroke into the stomach for his troubles. "Not him, please not him." He starts pleading, suddenly feeling weak and sick. By now he has not only earned the attention from all guards and prisoners, but from Roussel too. The old man walks over to Aramis, who is still held against the tree painfully tight. "You two were musketeers right?" He asks curiously. "We still are and our brother is already on his away to get help. Soon the whole regiment will be following you until everyone of you is either imprisoned or dead." Aramis hisses and if looks could kill, Roussel wouldn't be breathing anymore. But unfortunatly they can't and so Roussel smiles down at the marksman.

"They won't find me, they never do." He grips Aramis chin, turning his head to each side to get a better view of the angry musketeer. "It's a pity you're not younger. Could have sold you for much money wiht this look. But no one wants some rusty soldiers with scars all over his body. They want boys, beautiful boys, so innocent and untouched. Just like your young friend." Aramis growls, trying to get free one more time. "I will make sure that you will wish to be finally redeemed to get to hell, because your life on earth is much worse than any torment the devil could think of. I will ruin you and your men, I will tear you apart and make sure you will feel how I rip out your lungs and your heart. You will see your own intestines bleading in my hands."

For a few seconds everyone is silent, Roussel trying to stare into Aramis' soul until he starts to laugh loudly. "Such words from a religious man." He shakes his head, still grinning, before he rips the crucifix from Aramis head. "A slave doesn't need something precious like this."

Then Roussel gets closerr to the marksman, his lips nearly touch Aramis as he speaks. His words leaving the marksman weak, scared and angry. "Even if oyu manage to kill me - your friend will be lost till then. All his joy, faith and innocence will be stripped from him and his sould will be teared apart. You can kill me but you won't get him back like he was before."


	7. Chapter 7

Animals. Dogs on leashs. Or maybe textiles on the market. He feels just like that as they are forced to stand in front of a high wall of mountains, sheltering them from curious looks of passing traders or farmers. Chains rustle as they come to a stop, perfectly lined up. It's the first time d'Artagnan dares to look up and notices some unfamiliar faces in front of him. Each man looking more dubious and cruel as the one before him. Horses, slaves and assitants are waiting a few meters behind, eyeing the chained up women and men curiously. The girl beside him cries bitterly, her body shakes with each sob.

He wishes he could comfort her somehow but at the moment he could use comfort for himself. Nevertheless the musketeers tries to seem confident and brave, as if all of this wouldn't even bother him a little. His head raised high he looks into Roussel's eyes as the man finally catches up with them. A cruel smile forms on the old mans lips as he claps into his hands enthusiastically and turns around the other waiting men - the customers as d'Artagnan suspects correctly. "Thank you for coming, Messierus. As you can see we've got some new ... items in our little store." He laughs at his own bad joke, before he points at the girl besides d'Artagnan. "Let's start with this one. She's pretty, isn't she? Only 14 years old and so so innocent." He grins as the first bids are being shouted from the costumers. D'Artagnan notices that somme are very eager to get to 'own' this girl, while others are quite uninterested, maybe they're searching for something different.

The musketeers starts to count the guards and costumers with weapons. He wonders whom of them could actually use them and who would be brave enough to fight if it came to it - most of them would probably just run away the moment he got a sword in his hands. He counts three guards, which isn't that much. Plus Roussel who surely is able to shoot a gun. Plus maybe two of the costumers who would maybe fight back. If he just could get his fingers around the hilt of a sword...

D'Artagnan could throw up as the poor girl is pushed into the arms of an fat mid-aged man, who grins at her greedy. He hates himmself for not helping her, as she squirms in the tight grip of the man and cries even more. He has to do something.

But then, all the thoughts of escape suddenly faint as Roussel lays a hand on his shoulder. He's saying something before he laughs, but the words never reach d'Atagnans minds. He hears his heart rush and his breath fastens as hears numbers being shouted one after another. "NO!" He suddenly shouts and struggles out of Roussel's grip. Silence howers over the small group of men as all eyes stare at the man who is supposed to be a submissive and quite slave. "We are no animals you can just buy! You can't just take our lifes from us for some money! We are human beings just as you!" As a guard comes closer d'Artagnan knocks him out with a clout. He pants slightly as he steps forward. "We are just as much worth as you are - or even more! I'm a kings musketeer and no animal you can put on a leash!" THe others guards are now on their ways towards him too as once again silence comes over the group, the customers thinking about what he said. But then, one of them starts to laugh - and then another. Soon everyone is laughing except for the prisoners. D'Artagnan gulps, shocked by the cruelity of these people.

"I like this one!" Soon numbers are shouted again, leaving the musketeer speechless. It wents on for endless seeming minutes until the buyer is found. As d'Artagnan is pushed from a guard into the mans direction, he takes the opportunity. He grips the sword with his chained hands that's hanging from the guards hip. The men around him stumble backwards in surprise, but soon the guards have gathered back their senses. The one without the sword is now pulling out his gun, but Roussel orders him to only shoot if really necessary - d'Artagnan would bring more money alive then dead. The other two are pulling out their swords, pointing them at the chained up musketeer. "Give up, slave."

And there it is. The adrenaline floating through the Musketeers veins, his chest heaving in excitement. His eyes sparkle as he looks at the two guards, ready to fight both of them. He doesn't notice the smirk on his lips, as he attacks the first bandit. His moves seem clipped as he doesn't has the possibility to move as freely as used to, but he still manages to keep up with both men. Until he stumbles over the chains around his ankles, causing him to fall to the ground. D'Artagnan grip around the sword tightens as he holds it up, ready to stab anyone coming near him. The guards of course take advantage of the poor situation the boy is in, pointing their swordtips to his neck. D'Artagnan instictivly leans his head back as he tries to move away from the sharp blades. He feels how the sword his kicked out of his hands. "At least you tried, boy." One of the guards grins before he hauls him back to his feet.

The man who just baught him still looks shocked at the sudden outburst of his new slave, but then starts to laugh slightly. "I think he needs a few more lessons I see. Could be fun. But watch out, Roussel. This is a one time thing - if I ever get another slave from you which is so... aggressive I will want my money back." "My apologies," Roussel bows in a silly way, before he turns to his guards. "Make sure he won't be able to do this again."

D'Artagnan struggles as a gag is placed into his mouth. For a short moment his hands are unchained and he tries to get out of the tight grip of the guards but doesn't manage to get free. He arms are pulled behind his abck painfully rough and there chained back together.

"Get him to my horse, I want to see the rest of the auction." His buyer commands the guards desinterest. So d'Artagnan is brought over to the horses and thrown over the back of one. He lies on his stomach as he is bound to the sattle and out of precaution also to the tree the horse is also bound too. All of this unnatural position causes his back to burn and leaving him laying there in agony.

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

The exhaustion takes over him the moment he knocks at the door. He knows he should stay alerted, ready to fight if the owners of the lonely farmhouse outside the small village aren't as nice as hoped, but his body just can't take anymore. Every muscles burns as he lays Athos onto the ground and kneels beside him. Even a strong man as Porthos usually isn't able to carry so much weight for so long and in such an discomforting position. If he just could have thrown the Captain over his shoulder it would have been less painful, but he had to be careful because of the injured man's rips. Porthos looks up, sweat dripping down his face and his arms shaking, as the door is opened. An elderly woman is looking down on him, shock and concern clearly written on her face. "Oh my dear, what happened to you?" She watches the two men curisouly, her eyes stopping at the weapons, which courses her to take a step back into her house.

As Porthos notices that fear is mixing with her concern, he lifts his hands in defeat. "I'm sorry to disturb you, Madame. But we mean no harm. My friend is badly hurt and needs medical attention." The woman nods slowly, taking in the sight of the sleeping or unconscious Athos, before she steps aside. "Carry him inside. I will see after him."

Porthos let's out a breath he didn't know he had held and lifts Athos with a pained growl. He follows the small womand through the house and into the living room where he lays Athos onto a desk. "You're lucky, I used to be a nurse before we moved here."

"We?" Porthos lifts his eyebrow and looks around. He hasn't seen or heard anyone else and his insticts of a soldier leaving him at the edge at the knowledge there could be men or badnits be hidden somewhere. His hand reaches for his sword, but the wrinkled hands of the woman on his stop him. "There will be no need for it. My daughter and her husband are living with me, and her children of course. They are in the village right now."

Porthos nods slowly, still not feeling safe but he decides to trust the small woman. "I'm Porthos from the King's Musketeers and this is Athos, the Captain of the Musketeers." He explains, pointing at the unconscious man. A smile spreads on the lips of the woman and she finally recognizes the pauldrons on the man's arms. But then, a frown crosses her face. "What courses the King's Musketeers to ask for help at an isolated place like this?"

Porthos sighs, sitting down on a chair and taking in the weak sight of his friend. "We were attacked. Two of my brothers are still in the hands of these bast- bandits. That's another thing you may could help me with, if it's not too much to ask. Could you tell me if there are soldiers in this area, Madame.." "Jacques. Madame Jacques," she smiles and starts to examine Athos face. "I fear I have to dissapoint you Monsieur Porthos. There weren't any soldiers or Musketeers any where near for at least a few years. It's quite idyllic here, you know."

Porthos sighs, closing his eyes for a brief moment. "But there are some strong men living in the village, if you need help. They'e good men mostly." She says and starts to unbottun Athos' shirt. "Did he hurt his rips?" Porthos nods, helping the woman to strip Athos until he is laying there only in his breeches.

The steady hands of Madame Jacques are examing Athos' body, while Porthos tells her the details of what had happened and what he plans to do. "Go and find some help, Monsieur Porthos. I will look after your friend, don't worry. I will make sure he will wait here until you and your friend are back." Porthos bows thankfully. "Thank you, Madame. I will make sure that you will be compensated for the work." He looks one last time at Athos, not wanting to leave his brother behind. But he has no choice. Porthos leaves the house fastly before he runs towards the small village, ignoring the burning in his muscles.

As he reaches his destiny he runs in the first tavern and finding at least fifteen men in there - probably nearly the whole village. All eyes are turned to him as he crashes thorugh the door, sweating and out of breath.

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Aramis is pushed forward roughly into the same direction they've brought d'Artagnan before. As hope starts to rise in him that he would meet his brother again, he grabs for his crucifiy out of habit just to find nothing but air. Aramis sighs, feeling naked without the precious present from the Queen.

As he enters the small place covered by the mountains around it, most of the slaves are already standing or sitting on the other side - obviously already sold. Some who weren't sold are standng with Roussel's guards. Aramis' group is the last one and there are just a few customers left who are interested in these kind of slaves.

But Aramis doesn't care for them. He doesn't listen for the auction or the words spoken about him, he jsut searches for d'Artagnan in the crowd. And there, on the back of a horse, he sees him. Aramis tries to lock eyes with him but the boy never lifts his head, leaving the marksman worried.

Aramis must already have been sold as he's pushed to one of the costumers, who says something to his assistant in a strange language. The medic gulps, as he starts to understand what that means. As many slaves remain in france and are working for Comte's or other rich men - or in brothels, others are shipped to foreign countrys to work on farms of europeans who have settled down in poorer countrys to get rich there. Once there, there is nearly no way back.

He feels panic rise in him as his buyer, his 'owner' decides to leave. A ship probably already waits at the harbor for them. "D'Artagnan!" Aramis struggles against his chains, eventhough he knows there is no way of getting free. After a few more shouts, the head of the boy finally shots up. He searches the crowd until he finds Aramis, as he is bound to a horse so he can walk behind it. The marksman hisses as the ropes are attached to his already bruised wrist, adding to the discomfort he already feels from the chains. He stumbles as the horse starts to walk and looks over his shoulder to d'Artagnan. They share one last look until the mountains seperate them completly.

"Please Porthos, come fast." Aramis pleads looking up into the sky as if he could find god there somehow. "Oh Jehová, tu oído, y óyeme; Porque estoy afligido y menesteroso. Guarda mi alma, porque soy pío: Salva tú, oh Dios mío, á tu siervo que en ti confía. Ten misericordia de mí, oh Jehová: Porque á ti clamo todo el día. Alegra el alma de tu siervo: Porque á ti, oh Señor, levanto mi alma. Porque tú, Señor, eres bueno y perdonador, Y grande en misericordia para con todos los que te invocan. Escucha, oh Jehová, mi oración, Y está atento á la voz de mis ruegos. En el día de mi angustia te llamaré: Porque tú me respondes." (*)

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 _Translation: *Listen to me, Lord, and answer me, for I am helpless and weak. ave me from death, because I am loyal to you;save me, for I am your servant and I trust in are my God, so be merciful to me; I pray to you all day long. Make your servant glad, O Lord, because my prayers go up to you. You are good to us and forgiving, full of constant love for all who pray to you. Listen, Lord, to my prayer; hear my cries for help. I call to you in times of trouble, because you answer my prayers._

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 **Thank you for all your lovely reviews and I apologies to everyone whom I don't answer, but I can assure you I am reading and loving everything! I really enjoy writing this story and I am already sad as it slowly comes to it's end. Still not sure for which of the versions I have in mind, I will decide ;)**


	8. Chapter 8

Porthos eyes the men in front of him sceptically.

After he explained his situation to the villagers in the tavern, ten of them agreed to help him. So he sent them to get all weapons they could get and their horses.

So they stand in front of him, worse than new recruits. Some of them younger than d'Artagnan others old enough to have survived three kings. He noitces that some of them have guns at their belts, others are holding shotguns. There are some daggers, swords, pitchforks... At least each one has a horse, he thinks.

"Mount up, we have to hurry!" Porthos orders and climbs on a horses back himself. The villagers follow his order enthusiastically and ride behind him. The musketeer forces the animal into a galop, his eyes fixed on the road he had walked along before.

"I hope your friends are fine," a young mand suddenly says as he rides beside Porthos. He is well build, young but already an adult. He is one of the few men who is armed good enough to fight properly. "They always are." Porthos answers, desperate to not let dark thoughts take over.

"I'm Thomas Betrand. Madame Jacques is my mother-in-law," he explains, as he knows that one of Porthos' friends is at their farm right now. Porthos forces himself to a smile. "She is a great woman."

"Do you know why so many of us were willing to help you?" Thomas emotion switches from cheerfullnuss to thoughtfullness as he watches Porthos. The Musketeer shakes his head. "Thought you were just some very good men. Is there more than that?"

Thomas nods sighing. "These men, these slave traders... they took quite a lot from us. Every now and then they ride through the village, kidnapping our sons and daughters, parents, siblings, wifes. There's not one left in the village who hasn't lost someone to these traders sometime."

Porthos looks at the man in disbelief. "Why did you never got help? Weren't you informing the king about this?" "Oh we did, many times. But I fear that it wasn't that important to him - we're just a small, unimportant village." Porthos growls and tightens the grip around his reigns. "Every life is important."

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Aramis' walk is nothing more than a constant stumbling as the horse and the ropes around his wrists froce him to keep on walking way too fast for his liking. Every muscle of his body arches, while his throat pleads for some water. He had ignored the rumble in his stomach since hours, but the lack of food and sleep has it's toll on him. The headache increases with each minute he forces his legs to somehow move further, sweat running down his body. Eventhough he was stripped from his pauldron and leather jacket - leaving him in just his breeches and a linen shirt - he feels way to hot. A little bit of shadow and some cold water... Aramis sighs at the thought.

It doesn't take long until he falls over his own feet for a third time. The horse drags him further for some meters, his skin scratching over the rough ground beneath him, until the rider stops the animal. "Steh auf, Sklave." And eventhough Aramis ddoesn't understand a word the man speaks, he knows what he is supposed to do. And he tries to stand up, he really does. But without the possibility to support himself on his arms, he just falls back to his knees the moment he tries to get his feet beneath his body. The annoyed assissant from the buyer hauls him to his feet, before mounting up again. So the stumbling goes on.

"Where will you ship me?" He asks between heavy breaths. The man on the horse he is bound to, looks at him confused before he just shrugs and talks to his master. By now, Aramis suspect the language to be german, but as he had only heard it on a few occasions he can't be sure. It wouldn't be too bad to be brought to Germany, from there he could get back easily. But the feeling that the mens destination is not german but a country much further away won't leave him.

He hears and smells the harbor before he sees it. The smell of dead fishs and waste pollutes the air, while a jumble of voices reaches his ears. Without hesitation Aramis is brought to a quite big ship. Guards are waiting at the front and on the deck, there will be probably mroe inside the ship. Aramis watches how slave after slave is brought onto the ship, before he himself is bound from the horse and dragged towards the ship. Before the entrance he stops. No he can't let that happen, he can't just walk onto this boat. The annoyed worker pulls at the rope forcing Aramis to stumble a step forward. The musketeer growls angrily. He throws himself on the worker, his hands around the mans throat. The man pushes and pulls at Aramis' hands, arms and shoulders but the musketeers doesn't loosen his grip. Satisfaction overcomes him as the workers struggle gets weaker with every moment that passes. But, of course, the satisfaction to see this man die won't be given to him, as the first guards are reaching them, he is pulled away and pushed to the ground roughly.

Aramis manages to kick and punch the guards a few times before they get their control over him again. Their fingertips dig into his skin as they drag him onto the ship.

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D'Artagnan desperatly tries to not throw up, as the bouncing of the horse irritates hi stomach way too much for his liking. But vomiting would mean that he would choke on it, beacuse of the gag in his mouth. He feels dizzy, not really noticing where they go or how long they already travelled. It feels endleessly long.

It had been at least long enough to think about everything that could happen to him. Horrific pictures floated his minds the whole time, leaving him trembling and sick. D'Artagnan hates himself to be so weak, to be so easily scared. He never thought of him as a cowardn till now. He never feared death or injuries, he was always willing to sacrifice everything to save the royals or his brothers - but this is different. He isn't scared of the pain that could come, not even the humilitation. He could handle this, maybe. But being helpless, being weak and vulunerable makes him so scared. In fights he never saw himmself as a victim. He was the Musketeer, the great swordsman who could defeat most of his opponents easily. He was the one in charge and decided what would happen. He was the winner.

Now the tables have turned.

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Porthos had decided to ride straight towards the port as it is where he expects his brothers to be. It would be useless to go back where he last saw him, as he doesn't know which route they took. He will just wait at the harbor to free them. Therefor he prays that they will acutally be there. That he won't be too late or the tradersdecided to bring them somewhere else.

Fortunatly the villagers know this area well and showed him ways to get faster to the port than he had thought was possible. It could still be too late.

Porthos forces his horse to run even faster, knowing that the animal will need a rest soon. But he has to get there. And an unbelievable amount of relief fills him as they finally reach the port. He jumps from his horse, ordering the villagers to follow his example and runs towards the ships.

After checking at least seven ships he frozes and stares at the deck of the eight ship. They lock their eyes and he notices the amount of relief in the marksmans eyes. "Aramis!" Porthos shouts and rips himself out of his numbness. He runs over to the landing stage, the villagers following him. Immediatly guards build a row that needs to be broken through.

There is no holding back anymore. Porthos attacks the first man and notices that the villagers are doing the same. There is blood, there is pain. He doesn't notice anything. Man after man dies. Bad man, good man. There are screams and shouts. The water aroudn the ship turns red, as Porthos gasps for air. He struggles and takes the guard with him.

They fight. Eachother, for their lifes, for air. Water is everywhere, blood surrounds him. One stab and Porthos is free, breaking the surface and gasping for air. A siren rings in his ear, let's his heart miss a beat. No. Not yet! Porthos crawls back to land, not caring about the lifeless bodies to his feet. The ship moves, the landing bridge is missing. Aramis stands on the deck, and as hope leaves him he stops to fight against the guards.

Porthos tries to jump at the ship somehow but just falls into the water again. He swims until his arms give up and until Aramis is too far away. "Find d'Artagnan! He's somewhere else!" The marksman shouts, before he is dragged into one of the lower decks of the ships.

In this moment, not only hearts break, but a world shatters into a thousand pieces. Les inseperables, seperated.

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 **Fun Fact: This story was actually supposed to be a one shot and end after the first chapter... now we are here ...!**


	9. Chapter 9

**As you may have already noticed I've updated quite often these past days and I will try to keep it up like this for this week, as university starts on monday and I won't be able to write that much then (wish me luck).**

At first there is nothing but darkness. Then, he hears rustling of skirts, voices. They are dull and come from far away. Pain. He doesn't know where it hurts, as his whole body just burns in agony. The throbbing in his head increases as he tries to move, do something. He can't see, he notices. It's unusually hard to open his eyes, as his eyelids are heavy. Nevertheless he manages it somehow. White light flashes the room, burning his eyes. He squints, trying to adjust to the brightness.

The voices get louder, but the words are still inaudible to him. He notices that he doesn't lie on the ground but on something soft. A light weight lies on top of him and warms his naked chest. A blanket probably. Athos frowns, wondering how he got wherever he was now. The last thing he remembers is how Porthos carried him, his rips arched and his head hurt - the bouncing made everything worse and he was so incredible tired. By now Athos' eyes have adjusted to the light and the blurring outlines form to furniture and bodys. His heart misses a beat as none of this room seems familiar and none of the person in it. Two women are standing by the window on the opposite of the room, talking quietly. He shifts and tries to sit up - he has to get away from here, is the only thing he can think of. Suddenly he remembers. Aramis and d'Artagnan, they are in danger. Porthos was with him, but he isn't now. Maybe Porthos is in danger too? He has to help them. He has to get out of these strangers house.

As the women notice his movements they turn to him. The young one smiles at him sympathically and hurries over to the bed immediatly, while the elderly woman just shakes her head slowly. "You should be resting, my dear." He hears a high but kind of rusty voice - it coes from the elderly woman by the window. Instinctively Athos tries to move away from the young woman as she tries to push him back on the bed gently. He grabs her wrists tightly, a look of anger, pain, fear and confusion on his face. The young woman frowns trying to get free of the tight hold. "I didn't mean to startle you," she says, still trying to get free.

Athos, who still doesn't now if these women are friend or foe doesn't let go but just looks over to the elderly woman coming over to them. "My dear, no need to be scared. Your friend - what was his name again? - Porthos! Your friend Porthos gave you into our caring hands. You were unconscious for quite a while." Athos frowns, unsure if to believe the women but as he doesn't see any weapons and isn't tide up either, he decides to let the young woman go. His head pounds harder at the agitation, so he rests it on the wall behind him.

"Where is he now? Porthos?" Athos asks, his voice rough from not drinking in quite a time. The elderly woman gives him a glass, while the young one frowns at the marks of fingers on her wrists. "My apologies," Athos sighs, still quite confused with the whole situation. "I didn't mean to harm you, Madmoiselle." The young woman smiles comforting and nods. "Madame Betrande. And this is my mother, Madame Jacques. I had met Porthos early this moring in the village. My husband and some other men went with him to search for the missing Musketeers."

Athos takes a sip from the water, sighing as the burning in his throat reduces. "They aren't back yet?" Madame Jacques shakes her head, concern painting it lines on her face.

"I think they wanted to go to the harbor. They should be back tomorrow at noon."

Athos tries to push himself up to stand up but as a burning pain spreads in his ribs he leans back again, breathing heavily against the agony. "I should follow them." Madame Betrande huffs, nodding her head in disbelief. "You men are all the same, aren't you? You need to rest, Monsieur Athos you're in no shape to ride or even walk. Two of your ribs are broken and you got quite a bad concussion."

"Furthermore," Madame Jacques ads, as she sits down on a chair, her knees cracking, "I promised your friend that we would make sure that they will find you here. You wouldn't be able to find to the harbor alone, anyways. So stay here and rest, my dear. Your friends will be fine, they are Musketeers. And I've heard they are quite hard to kill, aren't they?"

The ghost of a smile appears on Athos' lips and he nods slightly. As much as he wants to follow his friends, he knows he would be no help and probably would just go missing in one of the many forests. He decides he can trust the women for the start, as they don't seem to lie.

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The ship is long gone, faded with the blue of the horizon and sea many minutes ago. A crowd has formed around him, which he notices now for the first time. For the first time since he had to watch how Aramis was shipped away, he turns his back towards the endless water. People are whispering, staring at him. Others are pointing at the bodys on the ground shocked. Porthos follows the fingers, looking down to his feet. He stands in a puddle of blood, soaking through his leather boots. On the ground some fo the guards and between them - villagers. Innocent villagers slaughtered as they wanted to hel the King's Musketeers and revenge the crimes done to their families. Porthos gulps, looking around, searching for some familiar faces alive. Some have survived, bruised awnd dirty - but alive - they are standing at the side looking at him with empty eyes. He doesn't know what's going on in their minds. They're probably angry with him, they are scared and hurt, they are mourning for their dead friends and familymembers. Porthos again, looks down to the dead ones.

Thomas Bertrande lies there, a dagger pushed right through his left eye, leaving his face blood strained and ruined. Porthos suddenly feels sick as the reality of the situation drawns on him. Aramis is gone. Shipped to some foreign country he probably never even has heard of. Sold like an animal to do the work for others. Innocent men dead, because he took him with him. He never should have done this. They have died in vain.

Time seems to have stopped, as he makes his way through the crowd, the people still starring at him. He doesn't care. All he cares for is the lost life of his brother and the lost lifes of the villagers. It was his fault. His fault alone. Porthos doesn't dare to look at the villagers that had survived but mounts up and rides away without turning around again. He feels their eyes on him, but he couldn't bear to see them again. He knows that it's wrong what he is doing. he should stay, help them to tend to the wounded and get the dead ones on a wagon - but he can't. His own sorrow and guilt forcing him to leave.

And then, he had rode already an hour, he remembers Aramis last words. The words that the marksman shouted to him in desperation, as he knew his own life was not to be saved. The last thing he said to Porthos was the plead to save d'Artagnan. D'artagnan! Porthos had totally forgotten. He has to save the boy. Not only for his own sake but for Aramis' too.

But where should he start? How is he supposed to know where the boy was brought too, if not to the port? It seems as they had been split up, maybe already sold before they reached the harbor. Aramis, claerly taken to be some kind of worker in a foreign country... but d'Artagnan?

And then Porthos remembers the comments from the guards, the disgusting attack on his brother... The Musketeer is close to vomitting as the possibilities run through his mind. No, he can't let that happen. He had already allowed that they take Aramis from him, he can't allow the same thing to happen to the boy. He was barely a man, a musketeer for just a few years. Eventhough he already experienced war and showed that he was more than worth to be a Musketeer, he was still young. A young, reckless man with a woman back in Paris waiting for him. He has to save d'Artagnan.

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Hours of riding on his stomach, bound the back of a horse, had made him dizzy and sick. He doesn't fight as the ropes are finally cut and he ungently thrown from the animal. "Move or I make you run," the man who had bought him, growls. D'Artagnan struggles to get to his feet, as his limbs are numb and heavy. The world around him spins as he finally stands, the blood rushing out of his head way to fast. His movements are sluggish as he places one foot before the other. Walking takes way too much concentrating for him. And he stops the moment a great bulding rises in front of him. He gulps, immediatly taking a step back. Courtans are covering the many windows, but sounds that make clear what they come from, echoe through the street. His stomach twists as he is pushed forward.

"No!" D'Artagnan tries to fight against the guard pushing him even more, but fails. Soon, he is thrown over the mans shoulder - feeling again like he was on the horses back. He doesn't stop struggling, but the colossus who carries him, doesn't seem to even notice.


	10. Chapter 10

In the late hours of the evening Porhtos is forced to finally rest - or at least to give his horse the possibilty to rest, as riding in the darkness would just be too dangerous. He can't risk to fall from the horse and die here in the wilderness, because that would mean there would be noone who could help d'Artagnan. Furthermore the Musketeer knows just too well how important it is too get at least a little bit of sleep and eat enough to stay alerted. Exhausted and weak he would be no use to anyone. After binding his horse onto a tree, so close to the small creek that it can still reach it - he takes his saddlebags off. There's not much in though, as his own bags and horse got lost in the ambush which started all of this. At least he packed some food and wine as he had to wait for the villagers to be ready. Porthos decides to not start a fire as it isn't too dark and he doesn't wwant to risk to be discovered too easily.

Eating some dried pork and drinking his wine, he tries to make a plan. He has no infortmation to whom d'Artagnan was sold or where he could have been brought. The only thing he knows is where he had last seen the young Gascon. So Porthos decided to ride back to the place and hopes to find there something that could help him with his search. He sighs, rubbing his temple as a headache starts to form. Now, as he's only surrendered by darkness and a few lonely trees and a exhausted horse, he feels alone and helpless. He never liked being seperated from his brothers on a mission, but normally he would know they were fine. Often they weren't alone and the situations not too dangerous, but this was different.

They were scattered over the whole region - and the sea - and besides Athos, Porthos didn't know where exactly his brothers are. He doesn't know if they are fine - they probably aren't. And he alone is able to help them. He curses, wishing that Athos would be by his side know. His always calm and stoic appearance would be his anker now, as it always were. The Captain would tell him that everything would be fine and that they would find their friends in time. He probably would have already figured out where d'Artagnan was and would have make a plan that would definatly work.

Porthos wasn't so sure of his own ability to form a strategy, eventhough there was no reason to doubt his skill. After Treville and Athos, the colossus was one of the best strategists in the whole regiment - he had proved this in war more than once. And now the fate of his brother lays in his hands alone.

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Athos had stayed awake for a few hours by now and the throbbing in his had wasn't that bad anymoree - the teas Madame Jacques made for him clearly helped. The Captain is thankful for the care of the two women, eventhough he doesn't like that he is treated like a weak and sick man. The urge to do something, to help his brothers, gets stronger with every minute of doing nothing. He knows that he is no shape to ride or to fight, he would be more a burden than help right now, still he needed to do something.

"Tell me, Madame Bertrande, is there anyone in the village who knows the way to Paris and is a good rider?" The young woman places a bowl of broth on the small tabled beside the table and nods slightly. "I think Leon had stayed behind as his father rode with your friend. Why?"

"I need to send some letters back there. I think we could use some help." She nods in understanding and starts to search for something in a cabinet. "But it's already late. Gillian, my daughter, will fetch him in the early morning hours, okay?" Athos nods, thankfully for the help, as she gives him some paper and feather.

With a moan, Athos stands up from the bed and walks over to the table - each step sending a burning pain through his side. He sits down slowly and places the paper in front of him.

In a scruffy handwriting he tells Treville what had happened and asks the Minister to send some men for help. Athos stops writing as he notices Madame Bertrande's eyes on him. He looks up from the letter, to see worry on her young face. With a raised brow, he asks what she's thiking about. Madame Bertrand seems startled, as she was lost in thoughts. "I know it's way too early to worry - they won't be able to arrive before tomorrow - but I just have such a bad feeling. I hope nothing happens to them." And with them, she means her husband, Athos knows. The Captain forces himself to stand up and gently places a hand on her shoulder, squeezing it slightly. "They are with Porthos, one of the best Musketeers in the whole regiment. He will make sure nothing bad happens to them - he probably won't even let them close to the bandits. He wouldn't risk the life's of some innocent men, I know it." Madame Bertrande smiles at the Captain and nods. "Thank you, Monsieur Athos."

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D'Artangnan moans as he is roughly thrown into the ground. He needs a few seconds to regain his senses completly and to recognize where he is. As he pushes himself into a sitting position, he notices a large bed one the one side of the room and a small drawer under small window which is covered with curtains. He gulps and tries to stand up on shaking legs.

"Make sure he won't escape, he was expensive." He hears the man who bought him say, before he leaves d'Artagnan with two guards. Two wasn't that much though, he thinks, a small smile forming on his lips. He let's them come closer and waits for the moment in which the bigger guard wants to put mancles around his wrists. Swiftly, he kicks the man in the guts and defends a blow from the small one. D'Artagnan manges to hit the man across the face a few times before the big guard has regained composure again. The man jumps at d'Artagnan, the chains and manacles still in one hand and gets his other one around the boys throat. D'Artagnan gasps, his hands trying to get the offensive hand away. A punch into his stomach lets him weaken his grip around the guards wrists as he gasps for more air, that just won't flaot into his lungs. He feels the world starting to spin as he notices the chains hanging careless from the big mans hand. He manges to get a grip at them and rips them out of his hand just to stroke him across the face in the same moment. The big guard let's go of his throat immediatly and crashes to the floor, his face a bloody mess. D'Artagnan allows himself to breath in deeply, before he turns to the small guard, in who's eyes a glint of fear is seen now.

The Musketeer smiles and reaches back to stroke the guard too. Suddenly a sharp pain explodes above his ankle. He curses and looks down, just to notice a knife stuck in his leg. The small guard uses the moment of distractibility to hit d'Artagnan with the hilt of his pistol against the head. The Musketeer falls to the ground ungracefully and senseless.

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He's pushed down the last few steps and tries to catch himself before he lands on his head. This was a mistake. Aramis can't help but cry out in pain as his wrist has to take his weight and collapses on the ground his rbeath fast as the agony won't stop. He hears a door close and notices that it get's darker in the same moment. The marksman manages to get a look around, but still doesn't dare to move. Just a few candles lighten the big windowless room. At the walls men sit, stand or lay - each one in a different condition, but each one seems hurt in some kind of way. The air is thick and damp and it's way too hot to bear. Aramis gulps and pushes himself up with his good hand, clasping the other one to his chest protectively. He notices curious looks on him from a few men as he stumbles to his feet. He thinks his legs would betray him, but somehome he manages to stay upright and walks towards buttress in the middle of the room, to lean against it panting. He hears some rustling and then footsteps, so he turns his head into the direction the sounds come from. First, he just can see a shadow until the man comes closer. Aramis notices him the moment his face comes into the weak light of the candle, his heart stops and seems to break at the sight of the man. He is thin - even thinner than before. Dark shadows beneath his eyes another sign for his exhaustion. Aramis notices that he favors one side, and clasps his arm around his torso.

For a moment, the rocking of the ship pauses, time stops and he doesn't dare to take a breath. "Brother Gabriel." He notices how long the man's hair has grown, and how unruly his beard looked.

"Brother Renè." The monk smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. Aramis suddenly feels an enormous weight taking away his breath. "What are you doing here?" He asks and notices how stupid his question is the moment it leaves his lips.

"The same as you, I think. But I guess you wanted to know how it happened that they got me." Aramis nods, his mouth dry. "Brother Marcus and I were on our way to the farm to get some new fruits. On the way these bandits attacked us." He sighs and crosses himself. Aramis' eyes widen in shock. "Brother Marcus, is he..?" The monk nods and Aramis needs to lean against the buttress even more. As a wave caughts the ship and makes him stumble, Aramis decides that it would be best to sit down. The monk follows his example and then points at the marksman's wrist concerned. "This doesn't look good."

Aramis doesn't need to look down to know it. Instead of getting better after Porthos had splinted it, the swelling just had increased and now turned into various shades of blue and green. He feels an ongoing throbbing radiating from the wrist, and by now it hurts to form his hand to a fist. He didn't allow himself to think about it, as his knowledge of medicine had found it's end and there was nothing he could now do than wait and hope. He knows what it could mean if the wrists doesn't heal properly, but he doesn't allow this thoughts to take over his mind. He refuses to think about losing the ability to use his hand, refuses to think about what that mean for his career. Suddenly a dry, heartless laugh escapes his lips as the absurdity of the situation comes to his mind. His career was the least of his problems. With each mile they brought between France and the ship, the chance of returning to the garrison ever again reduces. He closes his eyes as he tries to not let these dark thoughts take over. He has to make plan how to escape, he ahs to fight to get home - for the sake of his brothers. He can't just give up now.

"Let me see to your ribs," he suddenly says and startles the monk beside him. He has to think about something else. Brother Gabriel is a bit surprised but doesn't argue as he lifts his shirt. Aramis frowns as he examines the bruised skin and earns a few pained moans from the monk. "They aren't broken, that's good. Still it will hurt for quite a while, you should try to not move too much. I fear, brother, there is not much more I can do for you now."

"Thank you, René." Aramis smiles weakly, before he leans back against the buttress and closes his eyes. The continuing rocking of the ship makes him feel the tiredness that lingered in him all these days and he drifts too sleep easily.


	11. Chapter 11

He mounts up the moment the first rays of sunshine lighten up the country. Porthos feels his muscles arche from the uncomfortable night and the little rest he had got. Desspite the need of sleep he hadn't had much of it, as his insticts as a soldier told him to always stay alerted. A night alone and outside was always dangerous, as not only bandits only waited to rob yout, but there were some hungry animlas too. Moreover Porthos couldn't rip his thoughts from his brothers. He had ried to make a plan to rescue d'Artagnan, but with so little information there was not much to do than hope to meet the right people. Every now and then he cought himself as his mind drifted towards Aramis, and he felt his stomach twist.

He has heard about the slave ships - terrible stories. And eventhough he knows some are exaggerated there is always a sparkle of truth in them. The journeys are always long and exhausting, the slaves trapped in a room - often without the possibility to see the sunlight or get fresh air for weeks. Many men die on these trips, due to exhaustion, sickness or their injuries. Aramis wasn't in the best shape either, and Porthos starts to wonder if he would make the journey. No. Porthos forbid himself these kind of thoughts. Aramis is a strong man, stronger than most, and he will make it. He will live and he will not loose faith until Porthos comes to his aid.

He rode already a few hours, the sun stand high on the sky, as Porthos hears low mumbles and laughs. He dismounts quickly and hides behind some trees, as the sounds come closer. He recognizes the men the moment he sees them. Roussel and his guards are making their way through the countryside cheerfully. "We could celebrate for weeks! These slaves made us rich!" One man shouts and earns agreement fromm his comrades. "We will celebrate soon, don't worry Clement. But first we need to reach a village. I hate sleeping on the ground and outside." Roussel mutters and places his hand on his back as to show how much it arches. "I rather enjoy laying in a bed and a good whore by my side." The men laugh once again and Porthos can't hold back a growl.

As his horse starts to get nervous he moves away a bit more and follows the group silently. By now he is not able to hear what they're talking about anymore but therefor they chances that they will notice him are quite low too.

It takes all of Porthos' self-control to not just run up to them and fight all of them at once. He can't think of a better feeling than to slice their throats, see their worthless souls leave their body. But he has to wait. He was never a patient man and following them for hours, seeing them so happy while his brothers are in danger, takes a lot from him. But it would be no use for him to just slaughter them, beside the risk to be killed in the attempt was high, as he was terrible outnumbered.

It's noon, as they finally decide to rest. Porthos bounds his horse to a tree and lays himself onto the ground. He crawls closer to the camp and hides behind a bush to get a better look at the men. The one call Clement is the first to leave the save circle of bandits - probably to take a piss, Porthos thinks. He grins as lucks seems to be on his side. Clement walks into his direction into the woods. Silent as a shadow, Porthos leaves the safety of the bush and follows the man - hiding behind a tree every now and then. Clement seems even more stupid or naive than most of the men, as he doesn't look around once. A good soldier would have senced that someone was observing him. Porthos let the man pee, but then he jumped out of the shadow of a tree. His hand is over Clements mouth before he even notices Porthos, and silences his shouts. As the guard continues to struggle, Porthos strucks him with the butt of his pistol. The body in his arms falls unconscious the moment the weapon collides with it's temple. Porthos drags Clement further away and towards his horse. He first needs to get some space between him and the bandits, before they notice the missing man. Carelessy, Porthos throws the body over the back of the horse and mounts up as well. As fast as possbile he rides away from the men.

After a good hour of riding, he decides it's time for some answers. So Porthos bounds the body against the trunk of a tree and slaps his cheeks a bit harder than necessary to waken the man. Clement's eyes flutter open just to see the angry Musketeer sitting infront of him. A sparkle of recognitation rushes over his face and he starts to struggle against the ropes. He looks around panically, searching for a sign of his men - but they are far away with no clue where he was brought. Porthos grins once again, playing with the knife in his hands. "Listen. You have no clue how much I want to hurt you. But as I'm an honorable man I won't do it - unless you give me a reason to. So you better stop struggling or I will have my fun with you." Clement shudders under the dangerous gaze of the Musketeer and takes a look at the scar running down the mans face, making him look even more terrifying. Clement stops his struggles immediatly, fear taking over him.

"Good boy," Porthos says and sits down comfortably. He eyes the bandits sceptically, before opening his mouth once again. "I want answers and I want to get the truth. If you lie to me, I will know. So you better say everything you know or else your friends will find parts of your body scattered over the whole country." He smiles, as Clement nods fastly, obviously knowing that Porthos isn't bluffing.

"Good. So, where is d'Artagnan? The young Musketeer you sold." Clement thinks for a moment before he remembers the face of the young soldier who had fought at the auction against him and some other guards. "I think it was Gaston. G-Gaston bought him!" He answers as fast as he can. Porthos frowns, he has never heard of this name before. "Who is Gaston? What is he doing with his slaves?"

"He owns brothels - many, everywhere in France. I - I think it's obvious what he is doing with the slaves." He doesn't dare to speak out what exactly happens to the poor men and women that are sold to Gaston, as Porthos eyes darken with each word and Clement starts to fear for his life even more. The Musketeer's grip around the knife tightens enough to let his knuckles turn white. "Where did they bring d'Artagnan?" He asks, his voice dangerous low. Clement gulps. "I - I don't know." Suddenly POrthos' big hands are around his throat, the knife lays on the ground forgotten. "WHERE?!" THe musketeer shouts, pressing a little harder. Clement starts to struggle against the ropes once again, despreatly trying to get some air inot his lungs. "I don't k-know!" He exclaims once again, his voice weak. Porthos growls and lets go. "Where are the brothels?"

"E-Everywhere," Clement says, as he breaths fastly. "Some in Paris, others in every bigger village in France. He has fifteen brothels, at least." "What's the clostes one?" "Maybe at the Port? O-or in Toulouse! Yeah probably Toulouse."

Porthos looks at the man a few more moments, trying to make out if he's speaking the truth. As he is convinced that Clement is too much a coward to lie, he stands up and tosses the knife in the mans lap. Without speaking more he mounts up and rides away, leaving the man bound to the treep with a knife in his lap, he can't reach. Porthos doesn't care what happens to Clement, eventhough a part of him hopes that he dies.

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

As he awakens, he can't move. Not only the dull pain radiating from his head makes moving hard, put also the manacles around his hands and feet - each one his fixed to one of the bedposts. D'Artagnan manages to take a look at his leg, before the pain in his head gets too much and he has to lay it back onton the pillow. He remembers being stabbed in the leg, but now the only thing he can see is a white bandage around the limb. It probably was stitched while he was unconscious, otherwise the bandage would already be blood strained.

He sighs, and tests the strength of his vessels. He soon notices that it's hopeless to struggle. These are manacles and chains made of iron, not some cheap ropes. He stares at teh ceiling, trying to make out some plan to escpae, but there is none. He is hopelessly trapped. Before the manacles aren't opened, there is no way out of this misery.

He turns his head to the side as the door is opened with a creak, and a young women comes in. She is thin - way too thin for his liking and carries a tray with food and drinks in. She offers him a weak smile, that doesn't reach her eyes completly. D'Artagnan notices some blue spots on her arms, as she comes closer. "You need to drink something," She exclaims and sets the tray down on a table. D'Artagnan eyes her sceptically as she comes over to him with a glass. He doesn't open his mouth as she holds the glass against his lips. She frowns and sits down on the edge of the bed. "If you don't drink you will be forced too. They won't let you die that easily." She explains, and d'Artagnan has the bad feeling that she knows what she is talking about. "Just make it easy for yourself and obey." She says and strokes along his temple, just below the wound he had earned in the fight. D'Artagnan sighs and nods. She smiles as he gulps down the contents of the glass. The Musketeer hadn't noticed how thristy he was till now.

"Can you manage some bread?" "Yes," he answers, his voice rough. He feels stupid and helpless, as she has to feed him. After a slice of bread he feels fuller than every and alys his head onto the pillow exhausted. "What is your name?" D'Artagnan asks, as the girl takes the empty tray and heads over to the door. She turns around to him, once again this weak smile on her lips. "They call me Justine." Before he can ask what she means, the girl leaves the room.

Maybe he could make her help him. Justine seemed nice. She was probably just as forced into all of this as he was. They could escape together.

 **This story is getting longer and longer... haven't planned any of this though. Hope everything will still work out, even without proper plotting.**

 **Thank you for your ongoing support and reviews.**


	12. Chapter 12

There were some questions if there will be more d'Artagnan... I can promise you that every Musketeer will get his parts in this story, some things just need time! ;)

He lets out an angry scream, startling the others around him. "Sorry," Aramis mumbles as he feels the curious looks on him. He don't know for sure that he's being watched, though. The few candles were out for already a few hours - he guesses. The Musketeer has lost every sense of time. He guesses that it were the first two days in which he used his time to see to the wounded and sick ones. Since then, there was not much to do. Every now and then he took a look at a wound, but it wasn't much. They got food, but only sparsly and in irregular intervals. Some bread, cheese and water - it was alway the same. The door opened, bowls of food were placed on the top of the stairs and the men grabbed what they got. The injured and sick ones could be happy when someone gave them something, otherwise they would be starving.

Aramis wondered many times if the lifes of them were so replacable, and always came to the same solution - yes. He had heard the prices at the auction and since then he knew how little a human life was worth. Everytime food was brought in, he had watched the guards. Looked if their was a wway out of this dark room. But even if he came through this door... where was he supposed to go? "I can't do this anylonger!" He growles and turns his head into the direction he guesses Brother Gabriel. "What?" The calm voice of the monks soothes his soul the moment it reaches his ears. "This. Doing nothing. Sitting, waiting and hoping that I will live long enough to see the sun again. I need to get out of here!" He feels Gabriels's hand oon his arm, squeezing gently. "I fear, René, we will have to wait what fate the Lord has provided for us. You will see, in the end it will work out. The Lord moves in mysterious -"

"Don't say it." Aramis clenches his hands to fists and closes his eyes for a brief moemnt to regain self-control. "Just don't, Brother. I don't care about God's plans for us and I don't believe he will be able to hlep us. We're thousand miles away fro home, on the sea - there is no way out and if we survive this journey we will work until we die of exhaustion after working as slaves for some rich men. God has left us the moment he had allowed these bandits to take us on this ship." Brother Gabriel doesn't say anything, as he feels that every kind word will be unwelcomed by the once so religious man.

"What kind of Musketeer am I if I'm not even able to save these innocent people from this terrible fate?"

"You're a human, René. As strong, intelligent and kind-hearted you are - as honorable and brave you might be, you're still human. No one would be able to save us all, when he is completly alone. You're doing the best you can to save the men's life's, but you're just not able to turn a ship around. And this is no shame. Because you're already doing better things than most humans."

"What did you say?" Aramis head shots up and he glares at some unparticular point in the darkness, thoughts rushing through his mind. Brother Gabriel frowns. "You're doing good?" He asks, not sure what part of his speech René hadn't heard. "No, no. The part with the ship. Turn it around. That's it! Just turn the ship around."

"I will kill you if you let us sink and drown." A man from the other side of Aramis mumbles, but the Musketeer just smiles. "That's not what I have in mind."

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Porthos looks at the brothel with disgust. He walks around the building first, taking notes where he could escape best. There is no way to tell in which room d'Artagnan is held - if he is even here - so Porthos needs to go in there without a detailed plan. He takes a sip from his waterskin, before taking in a few deep breaths. He already feels sick. He has left his pauldron with his horse, around the corner of a house. As the Musketeer enters the brothel, the smell of parfume and sweat is the first thing he notices. A few women are scattered through the room, sitting on the laps of men or whispering kinky words into their ears. As a young woman comes up to Porthos with a smug grin, he has to gather all his strength to not show his disgust. He never liked the thought of brothels, but knowing that these were mostly slaves and not even women who did it voluntary sickens him the most.

He shakes his head slowly at the girl, but still lays his arm around her waist playfully. He needs to be convincing. "Don't take this personal, but I'm searching for someone.. something different." He says and tries to let his voice sound as lustful as possible. "What exactly?" The woman asks, pressing her body closer to his.

"Someone innocent. A boy - young man. But he should be strong." The girl smiles knowingly. Many men come there and want exactly the same. To have power over someone just as strong as them can be quite exciting for some. "You're lucky. We got a new one." She explains and leads Porthos up the stairs. He gulps and tries to hide his discomfort as he follows the young woman. Just a few minutes more, he says to himself. Then he can save d'Artagnan and get him out of this untouched.

"He's a virgin?" He asks out of concern but manages to remain the facade of a interested customer. The girl nods but doesn't see how relief fills Porthos' chest as they come closer to the door.

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

D'Artagnan turns his head to the side as he hears not only Juliet's voice but the one of a man too. He can't make out what they're talking about, just only muffled sounds reach up to him as the door is still closed. He gulps and tests the chains around his wrists another time, but they won't give in. He feels panic in him rise as the door opens slowly and Juliet steps in. D'Artagnan tries to get a glance at who came with her, but the man waits on the outside and out of his view.

He notices a hint of guilt in the girls eyes as she helds a glass of water against his lips. "You have a customer," she announces, her smile weak as she sees the wide eyes of the young Musketeer. As d'Artagnan once again starts to search for a way out of this situation she places a warm hand on his chest. "Relax, it's not that bad. Just relax or it will hurt. I will come looking for you afterwards... just relax." She doesn't dare to look himm in the eyes as she turns her back towards the soldier. No this can't happen. D'Artagnan struggles ahrder against the chains, teers filling his eyes. He doesn't dare to let one slip as he tries to stay strong somehow, but the fear just increases with each moment. This can't happen. Not to him.

As the door opens, and the silhouette of a tall man is seen, his heart stops for a moment.

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Porthos takes a heavy step inside the room, his eyes immediatly falling onto the bed as the door ehind him closes. He takes in the sight of the boy infront of him, before he manages to react. He bursts the door open again, shouting after the young woman to wait.

"Is this the only one available?" He asks, fear and fury showing at the edge of his voice. As the girld nods, he closes the door again and looks back to the scared boy. "Fuck," porthos mumbles and slides down the door to the ground, not caring about the man on the bed for a few seconds.

"FUCK!" He shouts again, slamming his fist against the wall, causing the boy to flinch and brust out into tears. "Oh god, no." Porthos takes a few steps towards the bed, holding his hands up to show that he isn't dangerous. "I won't hurt you, boy, okay? I won't touch you. Listen, I'm a King's Musketeer. I will get you out of here." He shoves the thought of d'Artagnan to the side for a few moment, allowing his instincts to help this poor boy come to action.


	13. Chapter 13

**WARNINGS: Non-Con**

It is different than anything he ever experienced before. As a Musketeer, he is used to pain. Not only in war, but on many missions too, he was injured. Bullet wounds, knifes, broken bones and swollen body parts - nothing special and something he could deal with it. Sometimes he would pass out because of the pain, but it was okay. It would heal and everything would be fine after a few days of rest. He is used to the feeling of fear. No Soldier is fearless, they are just brave enough to look the fear into it's eyes. He admits, he was always scared of death - be it his own or the one of his brothers. The fear lingers in his heart since the first day in the regiment and it never leaves, but it is okay. He know that a little bit of fear is healthy, that it keeps you grounded and alerted.

What he can't deal with is this.

Restrained and unable to fight, he can't do anything to stop any of this. No words would persude the man to stop the aussault. He just has to endure. He feels helpless.

The pain - physically - is bearable, eventhough it still hurts like hell - he knows he will survive it. It's the pain in his heart and mind that nearly breaks him. He never felt so humilitated before. Without his brothers to rush to his aid, is lonely. Lonely under the body of another man.

Still, he doesn't cry. His eyes are watery, but he doesn't allow a tear to slip. He stares at the ceiling, pretending all of this is not happening to him. He ignores the grunts and insults as well as the strokes against his cheeks. He clenches his hands into fists as cruel lips are sucking on his skin, teeth biting in it. He feels blood run down his chest, but he doesn't look.

He presses his lipps on each other as the foul breath coes closer to his face - but he doesn't turn his head away. Fighiting would be useless. He will just act as if nothing is happening. He lays still and moveless till the end. With a grunt and a last forceful thrust, the man pulls out. He doesn't even think about cleaning his mess, before he leaves.

As the door closes with a thud, d'Artagnan turns his head to the side and stares out off the window. A single tear slips from his eyes, as he can't prevent it anymore to fall. And a few more follow. He presses lips tightly together, not allowing himself to sob. He will stay strong, he won't let this come too close to him. It never happened anyway. And if nothing happened, there is no reason to weep.

He doesn't feel that his body is shaking, but he notices that he flinches as the door opens again. He doesn't look, he doesn't dare too. "It's me," the high voice of Justine announces, as she carefully walks over to the Musketeer.

"I asked if you could take a bath after this, but they didn't allow it. But I can wash you." She says quietly and looks insecure at the young Musketeer, who still hadn't looked at her. He doesn't answer, just tries to stop the tears falling. "I will wash you then.." Justine says and wets a towel before she starts at the mans chest. D'Artagnan flinches, turns his head and stares at her in shock. "Sorry," Justine takes a step back, looking at the ground nervously. "I didn't mean to startle you, but it will... help. Wash the dirt away, you now." The girl doesn't dare to explain further what she means, as she doesn't want to think about it herself. To her suprise, d'Artagnan nods slightly. She's right. A bath would be perfect now and as he won't get it anytime soon, this will have to be enough. So the girl starts to clean his torso again gently.

"The next times won't be so painful," she explains as if speaking about how to bake a bread. D'Artagnan clenches his eyes shut. No. No next times, no. He feels a hand brushing through his messy hair and hears Justine sighing. "Just don't think about it. Don't think about it like something ... disgusting. It's just your body. You were injured many times before, weren't you?" The Musketeer nods - he still doesn' trust his voice and he really doesn't feel like speaking anyway. "It's not different as a knife in your shoulder or a bullet in your leg." SHe pounts at the scar at his thigh he had received in the first year of war, as he saved Athos from being run over from a horse. "And soon it won't even be painful anymore."

D'Artagnan shudders at stares back at the ceiling. It's not the physical pain he can't bear. The way Justine talks about all of this, as if it was no the most humiliating thing that can break the strongest of men, is terrifying. Will he get that insensitive too?

He knows she does it to protect herself, save her own soul from falling about. She distances herself from all of this just like d'Artagnan tried - maybe it's the only thing that makes it possible to live on.

"They allowed me to free your ankles..." She announces in the same moment she opens the manacles around his feet. Immediatly d'Artagnan pulls his leg towards his body, reliefed as the moving soothes his aching muscles from being strechted for so long. He ignores the pain spreading through his body as he bents his legs in this and that direction. There is no pain when nothing had ever happened.

After making sure that d'Artagnan has drank and eaten, Justine pulls a blanket over his still naked body. "Stop fighting, brave soldier." She says as she heads towards the door. "It will only make it worse. Just... accept it."

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

"They won't have any slaves left if they keep on torturing us like this." Gabriel mutters and licks his dry lips. "They only want the strongest ones. They let the weak ones die and throw them into the sea, so they don't need to feed anyone who wouldn't be useful anyways." Aramis folts his arms under his head as he lays on his back, starring up into nothing. He hates waiting. Waiting for someone, for nothing, for a way out, for the possibilty to escape. He doesn't even know for what exactly he is waiting.

Eventhough his plan is not quiete good or detailed, caused by the lack of infortmation he has, he is determined to pull it through. Some of the other men had agreed to help, others are too weak or scared. Aramis doesn't see a reason to be scared. He would reither die in a fight on this ship as a soldier, than as a slave on the fields. He won't let anything untried to get home again. He has to get home for his brothers sake.

He doesn't want them to feel the pain as he. He tries to not mourn after them too often, but he can't stop their faces and voices rushing through his thoughts. They had always been there and they still are. Even so far away from them, he knows they are still with him somehow. He hopes Porthos had managed to get d'Artagnan back. Aramis smiles as he notices that the sun shines orange through the small crack of the door. He can see them right infront of his eyes, sitting at their usual table and eating breakfast. They're talking and laughig, Athos has already his first glass of wine while d'Artagnan can't stop speaking of Constance. Oh, how badly he wants to be there too. Sit with his brothers as everyday. He feels as if breathing gets harder as he thinks about the possibilty to not be able to witness this ever again. Soon - the voices will get quiter, the faces undetailed. The memories will fade and his hope too.

If they were just with him... He is sure that the four of them would be able to escape out of this misery together. As a team they are unbeatable and reach things that seem impossible at first. But alone, they are just men. Trained, good with weapons and fists, clever ... but not more. What makes them so good is their brothers. And without them, they are not better than anyone else. Just as hopeless as each other man on the ship, when caught by slave traders. Aramis can't just overwhelm all the guards alone, neither can he swim all the way back. He hopes that his plan would work out, but a feeling of unease spreads in his stomach.

He doesn't has the chance to think about it anymore as Gabriel grabs him at the shoulder. "I think they're coming." Within a second, Aramis is back on his feet. The sudden movement makes him feel dizzy for a moment, but he overcommes the feeling fast. "Get ready!" He hisses and slaps a sleeping man gently at the cheek. After making sure that everyone is as good prepared as possible, he climbs the stairs up. He holds his breath as a key turns and the door is being pushed open. Before the guard even has the chance to see him, Aramis knocks him down with his good hand. Making sure that the man is unconscious he pushes him down the stairs, which the other prisoners are running up now. The Musketeer indicates them to follow him as he creeps around a corner. It's early in the morning so most of the guards are still sleeping. Aramis takes a look around, orientating on the big ship, before he leads the prisoners towards the front of the ship. Commanding them to be quiet and stay where they are he rushes around the last corner just to see the Captain standing with backwards to him.

Aramis manages to get close to him unnoticed for a while, but before he reaches the Captain, the man turns around, looking at the soldier in shock. The man manages to shout for help before Aramis can drag him to the ground and muffle his sounds with his hand. He looks the man over and has to notice with dissapointment that he doesn't carry any weapons he could steal. Aramis is shortly distracted as shouts in his back indicate that a fight has started. That wasn't the plan.

Aramis had hoped to take thee Captain down and then to kill or capture the guards. It was easier in his mind as in reality. He realises that he hadn't thought this through. Aramis had no idea how many men worked on this ship or how well armed they are. He turns his attention back to the Caption who manages to kick the Soldier into his rip, making him gasp and loosen his grip. Aramis can't stop the man from turning them around and making a few hard strokes, before the Captain is pulled from him from another prisonere. Aramis stands up fast. The guards are not so many as them, but they are armed. A few prisoners are already dead, their blood straining the ground of the ship. A bloody short-shaved head captures his attention. For a moment, the world stops to spin just to spin even faster after that. Aramis growls and jumps at the next guard he can get his hands on. He doesn't care about his own injuries and pain and slas his fists into the face of the man. He kicks a sword from the grip of one guard and grabs at the blade of a dagger from another. He manages to finally get the dagger into his own hands and turns around, his arm stretched out so he could stab anyone who dared to come close to him. A few guards are already surrounding them, drawing their swords. Aramis doesn't care. He wants to kill every single one of them.

He manages to take one more down before the barrel of a pistol comes into his view. "Surrender, or I will blew your brain out." Aramis stares into the guards eyes with hate, gripping the dagger even tighter, not caring about the blood that's rushing out of the cut in his hand. He rather dies in the attempt to kill them than to surrender. As he takes a step towards the gunman, he suddenly finds a few pair of hands gripping him tightly at the shoulders and sides. He growls, trying to get free. But as the someone manages to get a grip of both of his wrists, a white pain shots through his injured wrist. He looses control over his body for a short moment - but it's long enough for the guards to bring him down and bind ropes around his wrists and ankles.

Aramis keeps on struggling until the gunman steps onto his wrist. He can't hold back a pained scream before he falls unconscious.

 **Okay, so this chapter was quite difficult to write for me. At first, I wanted to describe what happened to d'Artagnan more detialed... but I just couldn't . I think this fits better into the story and to the characters. I'm sorry for all your broken hearts... they won't be fixed soon.**

 **This story is just getting longer and longer than I expected, whoah! Thank you for your suppport and reviews, they really motivate me. I hope I can update on the weekend again, but I'm not sure because of my tight working schedule..**


	14. Chapter 14

For the hundredth time Athos glances through the curtains and out of the window, just to see nothing more than empty fields and a few lonely trees along the road. He knows that it will take the Musketeers to reach him at least one more day, still he has the feeling that he can't wait anylonger. He needs to do something. Something helpful. Porthos is already gone for too long and now not only fear for d'Artagnan and Aramis nibbles at him, but also for Porthos. He feels so useless. But as much as his heart aches and he want to just ride after them, he remembers the advice he always gives d'Artagnan. Head over heart. Eventhough he can by now walk on his own, he still is way too weak and exhausted to be a real help in a fight. Furthermore he knows that one man alone won't be enough to save his brothers. So there is nothing he can do than wait until the regiment finally arrives.

Athos is ripped from his thoughts as he sees Madame Jacques hurrying around the corner of the horse and towards the door of the house as fast as her age allows it. Athos limbs towards the entrance and meets the woman in the corridor - both panting from the effort to walk way too fast for their condition. "A rider is coming. But he seems to be alone."

The Captain frowns and follows Madame Jacques outside. He luckily remembers to take his sword and pistol with him, which stood right at the door. At their way around the farmhouse he starts who wonder who might be the rider, and he dares to hope that it's one of his brothers. But then, he doesn't dare to look up to maybe recognize the man who is coming up to them. If it is really one of his brothers it means there are still two of them lost. And since none of them would leave another one behind, it would mean they would still be lost. No, it has to be someone else.

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Porthos had been lucky in his attempt to free the boy. The brothel was quite small and there weren't any guards or someone else who cdould have stopped him. As he dragged the boy behind him through the room, his sword drawn - none of the women dared to protest. Even the proprietress just glared at him with fury in her eyes, but didn't dare to take a step forward. The Musketeer was thankful that at least one thing seemed to work out easily for once.

As much as he wanted, there was no time to care any longer for the boy he had saved. Porthos gave him a few coins and ordered him to find some kind of work on a farm or in a tavern. He hoped that the boy would stay out of trouble, there was nothing more he could do for him.

He didn't like the thought of riding back to the farm of Madame Jacques, but he didn't know where to go apart from that. There were to many brothels, scattered over the whole country. And without any kind of information and completly alone Porthos had no chance to find d'Artagnan in time. He needed help. Porthos was sure that Athos wouldn't have been stayed inactive the past times. Maybe he had sent word to Paris, Porthos hoped.

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

"Look! It's your friend!" Madame Jacques says as she finally recognizes the tall Musketeer on the horse. Athos curses quietly before he glances up to meet Porthos eyes, who stops his horse just a few feet in front of them and jumps up from it in a hurry. Athos takes in the sight of his friend as is relivied to not find new injuries on his brother. But as happy as he is to see Porthos back healthy and alive, his worry for his other brothers dominates.

Porthos also takes a short glance over Athos, happy to see his Captiann back at his feet. His posture still seems stiff and his walking is way less elegant than usual - but he is at least awake and coherent. The soldiers greet each other with a tight hug, which expresses more of their relief and worry than words could do before Porthos turns to Madame Jacques to greet her. "Is that Monsieur Porthos?" Madame Bertrande is hurrying over to them, holding the hand of her daughter Gillian.

Athos nods and then looks back to his brother, noticing that he suddenly tenses up. "You have to be Madame Bertrande," he says and greets her with a small bow. But Athos doesn't miss the weird look in his eyes, he can't quite assign and the sudden stiffness in the mands movements. The young womand nods, laying an arm around her daughter. "Where are the others? The men from the village?"

Porthos gulps, looking at the others for a second, not daring to look Madame Bertrande into the eyes. "Where is my husband?" She asks and as she feels the tension raising in the Musketeer, she holds her daughter even closer - worry now rising up in her.

"They - We - " Porthos sighs, lifting his hat from his head. "I'm sorry, Madame Bertrande." He presses his hat against his chest, still not looking the women in her eyes. Athos frowns, knowing immediatly what must have happened. Still, he is suprised by the behavior of his friend. They had to tell people that someone of their loved ones had died often enough - but they never feared to look them in the eyes - it wasn't there fault though. But now Porthos seems somehow guilty. "We fought against the men who captured our brothers. It were too many. Your man fought well, but it - there were just too mmany of them."

The worst moment is when the person who has lost someone, realizes it. Madame Bertrande stares at Porthos a few moments in silence, before tears start to stream down her face. Gillian looks up to her mother, confused about what had happend - she doesn't quite understand. Soon, Madame Jacques is with them, holding her daughter and grand daughter in her arms. No one dares to make a sound, as Madame Bertrande wheeps.

As Porthos slooks down in shame and guilt, Athos indicates him to follow him inside. Slowly he makes his way into the house and sits down on the bed, his hand pressing against his hurting side. Porthos takes a chair from the table and sits on the oppsite of Athos. He doesn't dare to look up but fumbles with his ahnds in his lap.

"What is it? What happened to the villagers thaat you feel guilty for it?" Athos eyes his man sceptically, noticing that he shudders for a moment.

"I shouldn't have let them fight. They weren't properly aimed and way too many." Porthos massages his temple, before he starts to tell his Captain everything from the moment he had left the farm to when he had returned. Athos is silent the whole time, soaking in the information the Musketeer gives him.

"So, Aramis is on a ship where we have no clue to where it sails. D'Artagnan is probably hold hostage in an brothel, where we don't know where it is, and the clock is ticking until 'something' happens to him ... and all these villagers were killed by the slave traders." Athos lets out a bitter laugh and shakes his head. "And all of this because of something that was supposed to be a simple mission." As he notices the hopleless look in Porthoos eyes, Athos forces himself to a slight smile - bearly noticeable. "I have sent word to Paris. Help should arrive tomorrow."

"I hate waiting." Porthos huffs as he leans back in his chair. Athos notices how weary his man looks just now, the dark circles beneath his eyes showing how little rest he probably had. The Captain suddenly feels bad, as he had slept the most time, rested, and was fed well while his brothers fought for their lives. It should have been the other way around.

"Rest till then," he commands and stands up from the band, so Porthos can lay down. The Musketeer frowns, shaking his head. "You are injured, you need the rest more, Athos. I'm perfectly fine." "I've slept the whole time. Lay down and sleep, I can sleep when you're awake. I will look after Madame Bertrande." To prevent further arguments, Athos just leaves the room and closes the door behind him. As he walks outside and takes a look through the window, he is happy to see Porthos already laying in the bed.

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

The first thing he notices is pain. His whole body arches, but the burning sensation in his palm and the throbbing in his wrist on the other side are overwhelming. He tries to touch one of his injuries to find out how bad they are but notices that his arms are spread wide and bound to the wall. He slowly scrambles to his feet to ease the tension in his arms. As Aramis tries to take a look over the room, he can't recognize anything. Darkness surrounds him. "Hello?" He asks quietly, his voice rough. There is nothing but silence and the ongoing sound of waves breaking at the wood of the ship. "Hello?" He once again asks into the darkness, this time louder. But still there is no answer. He is alone.

As longer he is awake as more coherent he gets. The memories of what had happened come back to his mind, as well as the picture of the dead boy of Brother Gabriel. Another death he is responsible for. Another one who died because of him.

Aramis closes his eyes for a moment, just to be greeted with the same darkness as when they are open. "For give me father for that I have sinned.." Surrounded by darkness, alone and chained, guilt and agony tormenting him - he feels the need to speak to god, after a long time of not believing. This has to be gods punishment for him. He is still there, he never left him - but he has punish him for all his sins. To not loose his mind and get lost in his dark thoughts, he goes to back to the thing he can do the best. The words leave his mouth fluently, recenting verses of the bible perfectly. France, Spanish, Latin... Aramis speaks every prayer he knows, mumbles every verse he remembers, in every language he can speak - in the hope to somehow reach his god.

But his pleas go unnoticed, soaked up by the suffocating darkness.

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

D'Artagnan is woken by the dorr creaking open and Justine coming in with a tray full of food and water. To his suprise, she just doesn't start to feed him as the last times but starts to fumble something out of the pockets of her dirty dress. A key. He follows her hand with his eyes, as she unlocks his left hand. D'Artagnan sighs in relief as his lays the hand on his lap, finally able to completly relax his muscles. "The other hand too?" He asks and tucks at the chains around his right wrist. "Not yet." Justine smiles sympathetic and hands him over a cup full of soup. "You should eat."

D'Artagnan frowns and shakes his head. "I'm not hungry." If she can't free him fro this nightmare, he just wants to be left alone. "I won't leave before you haven't eaten."

Defeated he eats a few spoons, before leaning back against the wall behind the bed. "I'm full." Justine shoots him a strict look but puts the bowl back on the tray nevertheless. "Next time you eat more." She hands him over some water, which he drinks thankfully.

"Have you ever thouht about running away?" D'Artagnan suddenly asks. Justine once again smiles slightly, before she nods. "At the beginning, yes. But believe me, it's not worth it. They will find you and punish you. It's safer to stay and do what they want. It's not such a bad life anyway. We get enough to eat and drink, have a place to sleep and some customers can be quiete nice."

"That's bullshit." D'Artagnan huffs, tucking at his chains once again. "I would rather die trying to get out of here than to go on with this life. This isn't even a life! This is... this is slavery." He shakes his head frustrated. "You could help me - open the chains. I could help you get out of this, too. Justine. You just need to give me the key and we both can be free. And if you really want to stay... they wouldn't ever have to know that oyu gave the key to me. Say I attacked you." He looks at the girl with hope in his eyes, as he clenches the tray thighter.

He notices how she fumbles with the key in her skirt - in fact thinking about helping him. But then something seems to cross her minds and Justine shakes her head fastly. "I'm sorry, I can't." With a loud thud, she leaves.


	15. Chapter 15

The sound of hooves hitting the dry road disturbs the oppressive silence. The women acknnowledge the sound and what it means, but none of them really reacts to it. They had already stated that the Musketeers weren't welcomed guests anymore. At least Madame Jacques had allowed them to stay until the regiment arrives. And the familiar sound of horses and men is their signal to leave the mourning women alone.

As Porthos opens his mouth to apologies for another time, Athos places his hand on the mans shoulder and shakes his head slowly. His eyes saying enough. Madame Bertrande doesn't want any apologies or explanations - after Porthos had told the story in detail to them she just wanted to bet left alone. The Musketeers bow slightly before they move to the door, no words are spoken as the women watch them go.

Patiently Porthos holds the door open for Athos who needs some more time than usually for the short distance. He seems exhausted as they wait in front of the farm for the regiment to arrive. "You sure you want to come with us?" Porthos asks frowning, eventhough he already knows that his friend won't stay behind for a second time. And even if Porthos knew that the Captain should probably rest a little bit more, he selfishly thinks that he wants him to come with him. After the last time Porthos doesn't feel able to save their brothers alone.

Athos answers with a nod before he glances down the roader, at least fifteen horsemen coming closer. He suddenly feels a heavy weigh being lifted from his shoulders as the Musketeers finally come to a stop in front of them and dismount. Fabio is the first to greet their Captain, an exhausted smile on their lips. "It seems their is not much time for small talk, huh?" He huffs before he lifts his hat and brushes through his sweaty hair. Porthos can't stop to recognize the familiar gesture, which Aramis did so often.

Fabio took the command over the garrison while the inseperables where away - he is in the regiment for just as long as them, an experienced soldier and focused on his task - Athos appreciated this from the start. So the three of them sit down under a tree, while the other Musketeers are looking after the horses.

"So did you get any new informations since the letter?" Fabio asks and leans against the tree. Athos had noticed before how exhausted not only the animlas but his men too are. The journey had been long and they had to be fast, there was no time for rest. He can't stop to feel a little bit proud at their commitment. Porthos shakes his head. "I only now that Aramis was shipped away while d'Artagnan is probably held... held in a brothel."

"You don't know which brothel?" Once again Porthos shakes his head. "In one of a man called Gaston, probably. But he owns many in the whole country."

Fabio nods and squints his eyes as he seems to think about something. Athos and Porths share a look, wondering what the man ponders about. "Gaston and his... buisnesses are quite popular. I happen to know where some of them are. I don't think that they would have brought him far away from here and not into a small village." Fabio sighs and seems to search for something in the distance while the other two men listen intensively. "As I still worked with the red guards some of them visited these kind of ensembles quite often. I heard a few things from them. Boys are rare and profitably. I've heard from a new brothel which opened in Nize. Apparently it's quite big and popular, since the dockworkers and noblemen who arrive at the port are the best costumers."

Porthos starts to hate ports. But he is relieved to have some kind of infortmation, some kind of hope. "It's not that far. We could be there tomorrow." He says and is already back on his feet, while Athos and Fabio remain seated. As he shoots them a questioning glance Athos points at the horses. "We can do without a night of sleep. But they don't. And this village isn't big enough to spare us enough fresh horses."

Porthos growls frustrated, as he knows that Athos is porbably right. The Captain hates it just as much that they have to wait, but there is nothing else they can do. The Musketeers are already preparing camp while the three men keep on talking and making a plan, thinking about every possible place d'Artagnan could have been brought. The boy still can be saved, be spared a horrible experience if they act fast enough that's what they think and hope. They have to find d'Artagnan. Even more than ever since searching for Aramis seems hopeless anyway. At least one has to return.

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He doesn't know how long it had been since he had been stuck into this hole. Where it hours or days? If he listens to his stomach and dry throat it has to be at least one day, maybe more. It's hard to tell without any light. He had never wished for a canlde more than now. Just a small fire so he can see his own hands. He had stopped to try to get free long ago, as the efforts just worsened his pain. His hands are a throbbing and burning mess, but at least no new blood is dropping down his palm. Aramis takes this as a good sign as he tries to make out the dimensions of his injuries. But without seeing them or even feeling them, there is no way to tell how fast or if they would heal. He just prays to not die because of an infection.

As the darkness surrounds him and the damp woods suffocates every source of noise he is left alone with nothing else than his own thoughts. He can't quite tell if or how long he slept, when he drifted off to unconsciousness every now and then. There was not anything else to do.

Nevertheless, Aramis tries to stay insane and tries to think about anything - anything but the darkness that presses heavy onto his chest. He thinks of Gabriel who gave his life for him so willingly. Who had died, because Aramis had said that it was the right thing to do. Because Aramis promised that they would win. Oh, how wrong he was. And it was his fault. He didn't think the escape through, he didn't think at all. Everything he wanted was to get out and he acted in instict. But as often his insticts had saved him, they had killed innocent people. Gabriel was not the first who had died because of him and he surely won't be the last.

He remembers the fight at the port, as Porthos tried to get to him. These poor men, none of them capable to hold a weapon properly, died in the attempt to free him. And Porthos could have died too.

Adele, Isabelle, Gabriel... all of them dead because he didn't think.

His thoughts drift off to d'Artagnan and he starts to wonder if Porthos had found him already. Maybe he did, but a oppressive feeling tells him something different. That d'Artagnan was beyond saving know - enslaved and assaulted, if he still lived. And Porthos? He had been on his own the whole time, with no brother to help him. Even a good fighter as he could have been killed easily by a few skilled men. He was alone still. Aramis should have been there on his side to help and find d'Artagnan, but again he failed.

And Athos... Aramis had seen enough injuries in his life as a soldier and medic to know that they could have killed their Captain already. One wrong movement of Porthos as he carried him and Athos could have been dead. Maybe he was. Maybe that was the rason that the wasn't with Porthos. Athos was dead.

Suddenly, Aramis feels it hard to breath and he gaspes for air as the thoughts brand themselves into his mind and heart. His brothers are all dead. He had failed them all.

He feels tears filling his eyes and doesn't stop them from running down his dirty face, there is no one to see it anyway.

A few minutes he just sits there and mourns, hating himself for everythig he did and did not. But then, like a small sparkle flying through the air from a peaceful campfire, realiziations strucks him. He doesn't know for sure. He hasn't seen any of his brothers dead. And eventhough it was possible, it wasn't necessary. They may be alive, intact and searching for him. He doesn't know for sure but he wants to believe it. And as he feels his body drift to unconsciousness again, he feels the need to protest, to stay alive. Not for himself but for them. He doesn't want them to find a corpse. If they are really searching for him they shall be rewarded with him alive and mostly well, so he has to fight. He has to stay alive and sane. While he thinks that the first part he can manage, the second one seems to get harder with each hour he's stuck in darkness alone and chained.

 **I've got only a few reviews on the last chapter and am wondering why?**

 **I hope you like this one more.**


	16. Chapter 16

He glances through the gap between the beige coloured curtains, watching how everyone is living his own life. Dockworkers are rushing from one side of the port to the other one, carrying barrels and bags full of a variety of goods. Noblewomen are accompanied by their maids and servants as they are on their way to the next ship. Soldiers walk right in front of his window, talking cheerfully. He sighs and turns his head away as the sun rips apart the thick layer of clouds. Too much sun still hurts his head after the last beating. His fingertips run over his cheek, where he is sure has to be blue bruises.

Then his eyes find the bruises on his wrists from being chained up to the bed for far too long. He is thankful for being finally able to move freely in the room, but this new kind of freedom also kindles a fire inside his chest. The need to do something, the urge to get out of his house. And he had tried. Of course he did. But it was useless. There were too many guards to escape unseen, his room is way too high to jump out of the window - still he still plays with this thought. After not getting out alone he had tried to get the soldiers attention but that only cursed the guards to pay more attention to him and beat him until he couldn't scream anymore. No one had heard him though.

So d'Artagnan decides to stay still and endure as long as he can. He has to wait until there is an opportunity to escape or - he still hasn't lsot his faith in them - his brothers find him. Till them he just needs to surrvive. While the young Musketeer is sure that his body will live through this and hold on to life as long as possible, he sometimes wonders how long his soul can endure this. There hadn't been any new customers since the first time, but there surely will be.

Justine once again visits him to bring him his food and some water to drink and wash. D'Artagnan rises from the chair - the only furniture in the small room beside the bed and a small cabinet, and takes the tray from the girl. "Thank you." He mutters, eventhough the thought of eating makes him feel sick. But he knows that they won't allow him to starve himself to death, so he decides that it will be better to just eat what's brought to him.

"Maybe they let you walk around the house soon." She says, an honest smile on Justines lips as she tries to lift his mood. D'Artagnan'S mouth forms a thin line as he eyes the girl for the hundreth time. He still can't understand how she can be always so polite and cheerful if she lives a life like this. "I doubt that. But thank you for trying." D'Artagnan picks a slice of bread and takes a small bite from it as he sits down on the bed, Justine takes the chair so they can face each other.

"Shouldn't you go back? Work or something?" D'Artagnan asks curious. Normally Justine had always left when she had done her duty, as she had to do other works too. The girl shrugs her shoulders and fidgets with her fingers. "I won't be missed for the next minutes."

D'Artangan offers her a gentle smile and dips the bread into the soup. He won't argue when he is offered some friendly company which may can distract him from his thoughts. "You know I have heard of people... people like us, that had such a good reputution that some noblemen took them to their homes - some even married them secretly. And now they have their own maids and servants and wear dresses with golden threads and necklaces made out of diamonts." She seems thoughtful, but d'Artagnan doesn't miss the sparkle of hope in her voice. The hope she clings to so despreatly. He doesn't dare to take it from her, eventhough he wants nothing more than to shake her awake.

"Yes, that can happen." But others are slaughtered as they just try to survive. He adds in his mind, as a smile spreads on Justines lips. "Do you think athat could happen to me? I have already met some noblemen here!"

D'Artagnan sighs and puts the tray to the side, before he walks over to the hopeful girl and kneels infront of her. He gently takes her hands in his and catches her blue eyes with his. "I know you think that this life isn't that bad - because you doesn't know any different. And I don't want to crash your hopes but is this really what you want? To be the mistress of a man who doesn't love you? Who just wants oyur body? Don't you want to live somewhere in peace with a loving husband and children, doing work you really love? Don't you want to be truly free?"

Justine's eyes move fastly as she tries to put her thoughts into order. D'Artagnan sighs and stands up again. He looks one more through the window befoer he closes the curtain completly. "You should leave, Justine." And take me with you.

"I'm scared." Her thin voice surprises him. "Of what? You are allowed to walk to the amrket alone, right? You could just go and never return - they would never find you."

Justine doesn't dare to look him in the eyes. She suddenly feels bad for being able to leave so easily but not doing it, while d'Artagnan wants to go but can't. "I know nothing of the world outside."

"Isn't there anyone you can go to? A family or friends?" She shakes her head slowly, making him sigh in frustration. He wishes he could help her. If he jsut would have his weapons and would stand on the other side of the door... But he doesn't. He is useless.

"When my brothers come, we will take you with us." He promises, causing the girl to look uncertainly to him. "No arguing."

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"We should rest." Porthos says as he glances to Athos who is riding at the front. His shoulders hang low while you can see how desperatly he tries to stay upright in the sattle despite his pain. Fabio lays his back into his neck as he looks at the sun. "It's not even noon and there is no river to be seen. We will go on." Porthos sighs, but he doesn dare to argue. He won't hurt Athos' pride in front of the others, eventhough he doesn't like how the Captain clenches at the reins.

Athos is desperate to reach Nize before sunset and to get d'Artagnan out of this horrible place before it gets dark. They can rest when the boy is safe. So he ignores the burning sensation in his sides, that make breathinng hard. He is sure he can manage the dizziniess as long as he doesn't have to stand on his own shaky legs. Athos doesn't let the thought that d'Artagnan might not be in Nize take over. He has to be there. He has to be.

He can't loose another little brother.

He won't ever admit it, but Athos has the feeling that he can't endure anymore losses or anymore setbacks. After what had happened the last weeks, one horrible accient after another, he just needs soething good to happen, he just needs a win. Still, as much as he looks forward to rescuing d'Artagnan, he is scared in what condition the boy would be. Athos doesn't know if he has the strength he will need to have to offer d'Artagnan comfort. He never was good in speaking or coping with emotions, what if he jsut amkes things worth?

But then, Porthos spurs his horse to a faster ride and appears beside his Captain. And Athos knows that he doesn't need to be strong enough, because he isn't alone. Whatever happens, there will alway be someone to take some of the weight from his shoulders. And when he hasn't enough words to say, Porthos will. And when his touch won't be gentle enough, Porthos' will be.

His stomach twists. Aramis should be with them. Maybe they will need his steady hands and his comforting charm. Athos notices how empty he feels without the always infectious cheerful marksman. Without his cocky comments towards each of them, without the teasing between him and Porthos. Porthos also seems more tensed up - not only because of the worry for his brothers or the exhaustion. No. They all complete each other in some kind of way, each of them has a ability the others miss. There's a reason that they are inseperable. Not because they are all the same and equally good in everything. No they are just such a good team because each one has his own talents to offer and his own character traits that are needed in battle. But that also means that they are weaker seperated. What is a swordsman without someone behind him with a gun? What is a collossus as Porthos without someone fast and nimbly as d'Artagnan?

Athos gives his horse another light kick.

They need to find their brothers soon.

 **Thank you for all your lovely reviews, , if critical or praising - I appreciate them all !**


	17. Chapter 17

Have been waiting for this chapter for so long...

He pulls his hat lower into his face as the sun keeps shining unforgivingly down on them. He has already stripped from his leather doublet, only riding in his thin linen shirt. Still the heat feels unbearable and he wishes for just another rest in the shadow and some cool water - but he has to endure. For d'Artagnan. It's not far any more so they will keep riding without a break till they arrive at their destination. Athos gaze in unfocused as his thought keep drifting away.

 _First, he doesn't realize what is happening, as he is ripped from his thoughts merciless. His horse stumbles and falls with a heartbreaking neigh, throwing him off it's back. He moans as his back collides with the ground. Athos needs a few moments to gather his senses and as he does he notices the thin rope that had been clamped between two trees. Realizing that this was not an accident but an attack he scrumbles to his feet, ignoring the pulsating pain radiating from his back._

 _He takes in the scene in front of him fastly. His horse broke his neck at the fall, while the other animals stood a few meters away without their riders. His brothers are already engaged into a brutal fight, outgunned and outnumbered horribly. Not caring about the fact that they stand just a small chance against the seemingly good-trained men, Athos runs to his brothers aid._

 _It doesn't use much, though. Porthos is the first who is disarmed and pushed into the mud, a gun pressed against his temple. He had managed to kill at least two of the raiders before he was oveerwhelmed but there seem to come more and more oout of the woods._

 _Athos pushes is blade into his oppenents gut, ready to kill the man threatening Porthos, as he hears the pull of a trigger from the left. A choked cry of pain following. As he sees the smoking weapon of Aramis he first thinks that the sound had come from one of the raiders. But it didn't. As he is still trying to not getting killed himself, Athos can't do more than watch how Aramis gets pushed to the ground and his hand getting crashed beneath an opponents food. The bullet has missed it's target._

 _"Stop now or they will die!" Athos turns around, his dagger raised, as another man comes out of the forest pointing at Porthos and Aramis, who is trying to regain composure. D'Artagnan looks over to his Captain, searching for a command. Athos feels the burden of being a leader again heavely on his shoulders. It's his choice to make and the outcoming will be his fault. If he decided to keep fighting, two of his brothers are likely to be killed before he can save them. If they surrender... god knows what could happen._

Athos flinches as a bird misses his head just a few inches and curses immediatly. He shoudn't get lost in his thoughts that easily. Las time he did, they were ambushed an kidnapped. He sighs, rubbing his temple as he feels a headache forming. He goes over the events of the day again and again, wondering what he could have done to provide what happened. And each time he comes to the same conclusion. He shouldn't have been distracted. If he had been alerted, he would have seen the rope, would have stopped his horse from falling and the ambushers would never had gotten the chance to attack them.

Everything that had happened, every bruise his brothers got, each nightmare that will haunt them - it's all their fault. He is their Captain and he failed, again, to keep them safe.

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

He watches the raven intensive. The bird seems to weigh up what to do now. As the raven jumps forward, he presses harder against the wall. A confusing question rushes through his mind as he notices the pitch black feathers. Despite the darkness surrounding him, the pitch black raven seems to be somehow shining. He doesn't blurr with all the black in the small room, but he somehow stoods out. The animal cocks his head to the side, glaring at him for a few seconds. Aramis holds his gaze, trying to stare the animal down.

As the raven spreads his wings and flys at him, feathers slapping at his face - Aramis shields his face with his arms. He feels claws clingin at his sculp and then a bruning sensation spreads through his head, as the sharp beak pushes into skin. He can't hold back a scream and hits at the bird, who seems undisturbed by his attempts.

Again and again his skin is ripped open. The raven works his way down slowly, picking into the flesh of his chest and arms. He tries to scrumble away, he screams and he pleads as the torture won't stop. He feels the skin in his face being seperated from the flesh, slowly. The salty tearrs burn in the open wounds.

He vision gets blurry. One especially heartbreaking and pain filled scream leaves his lungs burning, as the raven turns it's attention to his stomach. Arammis stares down at the animal as it slowly tears apart his skin and flesh, leaving his guts exposed.

As he thinks, it's over - that god or the devil will finally get him, the raven explodes, blakc feathers flying through the air and disappear as they hit the floor. Aramis looks at his arm confused as there is no wound seen, there is no blood on his face either. The pain is gone too. He tries to calm his breath as realiziation strucks. He's slowly becoming insane.

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

They look around the room, trying to put on to seem as least disgusted as possible.

Athos leans against the wall, counting the guards and men able to fight, while Porthos tries to make out where the boy could be held. "We're outnumbering them." The colossus notices, his hand already on the hilt of his sword, but Athos' shakes his head slighty. "We don't know how willingly they are to kill innocents. They could kill many before we kill or arrest them - they could kill d'Artagnan."

Porthos sighs in frustraion but has to admit that Athos is probably right. "I want to gut each one of them." He growls as they watch a women dissapearing with two men at the top of the stairs. Athos can only agree.

"Can I help you?" A young girl walks over to them, playing with the dirty skirt around her legs and showing enough for them to see her knees. As he had suceeded already once with this, Porthos is the one to talk. "We're searching for something more special." He says and tries to hide the disgust in his voice. The girl frowns and takes in the siht of both men in front of her. "I fear we can't offer you what you seek."

Porthos growls, forming his hands into fists. They can't be in the wrong place. Not again. "I know you have a boy here!" He nearly shouts, earning a few curious looks from other costumers. The girl takes a step back, clearly frightened. "N-No."

As Porthos is about to come closer to her again, Athos places a gentle hand on his arm and looks at the girl apologetic. "I'm sorry for my friends behavior. It had been a long ride." The girld nods, still scared of the strongly armed men. They had left their pauldrons with the other Musketeers, who are waiting in the tavern next to the brothel for their sign to intervern. "I'm Athos, tell me - what's your name?"

"Justine."

Athos forces himself to a gentle smile. "Listen Justine, we know that you have what we search and we want it. We will pay good." Porthos notices how the girl looks away, the flicker of her eyes as she thinks about what to tell these men. "What is it? What aren't you telling us?" He asks, way more aggressive than intended.

Justine takes in a deep breath before she straightens her back and looks them in the eyes, eventhough there is still a sparkle of fear in her eyes. "You can't have him. He doesn't take two at a time."

"What's this about?" A heavy woman comes over to them, her strict look focused on Justine, who gulps. "We want to see the boy." Athos says calmy. "He has a costumer right now, but then you can get him. Both together? That costs extra."

Athos and Porthos share a confused look as Justine retreats with her head hung low. "Where is he?" The heavy woman points up the stairs. "The second room to the left."

Not able to wait anylong they walk up the stairs as fast as possible without seeming to rush. They don't want any unnecessary attention. Following the direction the heavy woman gave them, they meet Justine again. Despite the fear openly seen on her face, she places herself infront of the two men. "I said he won't take two!" "But the woman-" Athos starts but Justine slaps him across the face. "Leave you sick bastard." She growls.

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

It's nothing special that men want to lay with other men and it's othing special that they like to be more than two at once at their act. Justine doesn't have a porblem with it. Normally. But it broke her heart enough, that he had to watch how a costumer entered d'Artagnan's room earlier - she won't allow that he has to endure even more pain from laying with two men at once. Furthermore these ones are heavily armed and seem ruthless, who knows what they can do to him. She hears her blood rush through her ears as she slaps the one with the stoic eyes.

A loud thud from inside the room, let's all three of them stop for a moment. Suddenly, Justine is pushed aside and the colossus of a man rips the door open. She presses herself against the door as the second men enters too. She notices how they stop in their tracks the moment they see what is happening, and she is just as suprised as them. The costumer lies on the ground groaning, while d'Artagnan is sitting in only his breeches in the bed - acandlestick in his hand.

Then everythings goes fast. The stoic man rushes ove to d'Artagnan and Justine screams - scared that the man would punish the boy. But instead he seems concerned as he talks to d'Artagnan quietly, his hands resting on the boys arms. Justine starts to understand. These have to be the friends, d'Artagnan had always talked about. She looks at the colossus as he grabs the costumer on his collar and holds him up into the air. The colossus throws the other man through the room, so he crashes against the opposite wall. He then walks over to the costumer, throwing punches and kicking him for what seems to be an eternity. She has the feeling as if she can't move as she watches how the Musketeer (she supposes he is one as d'Artagnan), keeps punching the costumer who is now unconscious or dead.

It's the stoic one's voice who finally stops him. "Porthos!"

Justine presses her body evenmore against the door as the first guards are entering the room, and the colossus called Porthos jumps right at them. The stoic one and d'Artagnan rush over to her, the boy seems still shocked but alerted. "Come with us!" He shouts over the groans and screams of the other men as he holds his hand out to her. Justine's gaze wanders back to Porthos who had already killed two guards. His clothes and skin are blood strained, a sick grin on his face as he twists his blade in the stomach of a guard. Another wave of fear streams through her body and she starts to wonder how insane these Musketeers may be - how sick their minds are, as they seem to be satisfied by murder.

As she shakes her head fastly, d'Artagnan tries to pull her along nevertheless, but the stoic man rushes him out of the room as even more guards are coming in. Justine watches how the two Musketeers leave while Porthos is left with the guards and her in the brothel.

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

"I'm right back." Athos makes sure that d'Artagnan sits down once they are outside and that some Musketeers stay with them, as they come rushing ut of the tavern - alerted by the screams. "Porthos is still in there!" Athos leads the remaining soldiers back into the brothel, clearing their way up to the room where d'Artagnan had been held.

As Athos enters he feels bile rising in his throat. There is so much blood, everywhere. On the walls, the floor, the sheets. It looks like a massacre as at least eight men are lying on the floor lifeless. Some faces are beyond recognitation, while other bodys are ripped apard, intestines spilled on the ground. Porthos stands between them, his chest breathing heavily as he lets his knife fall to the ground. He had not jsut fought them, not just killed them. He had slaughtered them.

"Porthos?" Athos asks uncertainly, as the tall man turns around and finally faces him. As he recognizes his brother the insane look in his eyes vanishes and is replaced with exhaustion and guilt. "I couldn't stop." He said and looked at the corpses around him. Athos hushed the other Musketeers away, not wanting them to see his brother like this, before he walks towards him slowly. "I wanted them to suffer for what they did to him."

Athos guides him outside, the pictures not leaving his mind. "He is fine - as fine one can be after all of this. Nothing had happened, we came in time." He tells Porthos what d'Artagnan had said as they walk down the stairs. He sees the tension leaving his brothers body. "They sstill deserved it." Porthos says and Athos nods, eventhoug he is still shocked by theextent of Porthos fury. He had never seen him like this - so out of his mind and guided by nothing than rage.

Back with the regiment and d'Artagnan, Porthos hugs the boy long and closely, before he finally lets him breath. D'Artagnan is still in his breeches, his cheeks red with shame as eveyone can see him almost naked. And with shame that he had been found like this, so vulunerable. He was glad that he had at least fought the costumer before anything happened - he doesn't want to think how embarassing it would have been if they had found him in a different position. "Are you okay?" Porthos eyes roam over his body, searching for injuries but finding nothing more than bruises and cuts. D'Artagnan nods, desperate to not let his mask slip - ever. "Nothing had ever happened. You came at the right moment," he assures with a weak smile, which hides the pain inside him. He is depserate to never tell them anything different than this. They will never know what truly happened, they will never have to be ashamed of him. They won't think that he is weak and helpless, that he is not worth being a Musketeer. These are things that he will keep to himself forever.

"Let's get you something to wear and some food." Athos says and leads them into the next inn, feeling relief finally wash over him as he has his brother back. And d'Artagnan seems mostly uninjured and not too troubled - that's all he could have asked for.

Tbc.


	18. Chapter 18

Washed and fed, wrappen into a blanket and sitting by the fire, d'Artagnan seems to be able to finally relax. Porthos and Athos are sitting by his sides, each one lsot in his own thoughts. D'Artagnan tries to remember he had last felt save as now and it feels like an eternity since they had last been in Paris.

He is the first one to speak, as he stares into the flames. "Where's Aramis?" He notices something rustle beside him as Porthos tries to sit more comfortably. D'Artagnan's sudden question has ripped him from his own thoughts, from the pictures running through his mind. They are blurry and it seems as parts are lost as he goes through the eventsin the brothel again and again. It terrified him the most how much he had lost control over his own mind and actions. The moment he had seen d'Artagnan, half naked and terrified, something snapped in him. He couldn't hold back anymore. Porthos wonders if something like this could happen again, if he would maybe sometime hurt someone innocent.

He sighs and lays his head back in his neck. "They took him onto a ship, don't know where they're heading."

"And we just sit around?!" D'Artagnan snaps and jumps to his feet, already searching for his sword belt, before he remembers that it had been taken from him. "You need to rest," Athos answers calmly, watching as the Gascon is putting on his boots. "I can rest later. I am fine. We need to find him! Have you even started searching for him?"

There is a oppressive silence as answer, and d'Artagnan shakes his head in disbelief and dissapointment. "You just let him down like this?"

Porthos snorts, crossing his arms in front of his chest. "We're letting no one down! We've searched for you, because you were in our reach and we needed to save you before - you know - anything happens. And we made it just in time. Don't you dare to say that we had abonded Aramis. There was no second I hadn't thought about him, tried to make out how to find him. But he could be anywhere on this goddamned planet."

Porthos suddenly feels exhausted at the realization how hopeless it seems to find Aramis.

"Sorry," d'Artagnan mutters before he sits down again. "I know you did everything you can. But still, we can't jsut sit here and wait and rest. We need to do something, anything to find him. He's our brother!" Athos nods in agreement. "I will have to seend the others back to Paris in the morning, the King needs his Musketeers. We three will remain here and search for Aramis. Eventhough I would like you to go back to the Garrison too." His lip twitches slightly as he looks at the young Musketeer, knowing too well that the boy won't go back wihtout Aramis.

"But-" Porthos says with a stern look on his face, "It's nearly midnight and we're all exhausted. There is nothing we can do now anyway as the horses need their rest too. We sleep and leave in the morning." D'Artagnan sighs, as the urge to do something grows with each minute he has to sit still. Nevertheless he agrees, knowing that Porthos is right.

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

 _Weeks later..._

Aramis doesn't even care to open his eyes as he hears the sound steps. There won't be anything to see anyway. Probably just a guard bringing some water and food, forcing him to stay alive. As determined he had been at the beginning of this ordeal, Aramis now finds it hard to remember the reason why he can't die. He knows he has to stay alive, but his blurry thoughts jsut won't clear enough to make out why.

A weak smile forms on his dry lips as he notices a familiar presence beside him. "Marsac you're back." "I am, my friend."

"You promised you would bring a candle." Marsac shrugs. "Forgot it." Aramis sighs, leaning his head onto the mans shoulder. "You promised."

"And you left me." Aramis flinches at her soft voice, surprised that she would be here. "You're saver in the palace. There you are protected and our son too. You shouldn't be here, it's not safe." "Am I really here?" Anne asks, cupping his cheeks in here gentle hands.

"You're right in front of me," Aramis frowns, not understanding the question as he his confused mind can't make sense of what she is saying. "You need to wake up." Again, Aramis lifts his eyebrow, confused by her words. "Wake up!"

A kick in his ribs rips him from his sweet imaginations. Gasping, Aramis wraps his arms around his torso as he is pulled upwards. He stares at the canlde in the hand of the guard as if it is everything that keeps him alive. "We're there." The guard announces ruffly and drags Aramis towards the door. "What?" He asks in confusion, suddenly scared of what might be behind the door. The guard doesn't bother to explain anymore as he oppens the door and pushes Aramis to the outside. He stumbles over his own feet, and moans as a sharp pain errupts in his head at the sudden brightness. He fastly covers his eyes with his arm and looks to the floor, hoping that would ease the pain the sun causes. He is led from the ship and pushed beside another slave. Aramis blinks a few times and slowly dares to lower his arm, eventhough he still can't look up, as they are ordered to walk.

Aramis stares at his naked feet as they're led away from the port, then he suddenly remembers something. His eyes wander to his right wrist and he can't hold back a hiss, as he sees the deformation of his arm for the first time. The wrist is swollen and still bruised and twisted into an ugly angle. He had forgotten about it as he got used to the pain over the time. "Faster." A guard pushes him forward and Aramis fastens his walk.

As he can't stand the view of his wrist anylonge her finally dares to look up. The sun still hurts his eyes but it is much more bearable by now. For a moment why he is here, as the beauty of the place overwhelms everything else. There is open land as far as you can look, just a lonely house standing in the distance. On the other side there is the endless see. The sun is burning hot down on them, even hotter than in the summer in Paris. He hears birds singing a beautiful melody as they are led ever closer to the lonely house.

"Where are we?" He hears himmself ask as he still takes in the sight before him with awe. "Africa." Another slave answers over the sound of rustling chains.


	19. Chapter 19

As Athos hurries over to their room, going over the new iformatin he got again and again, the sound of whimpers and a deep soothing voice reach his ears. He sighs as he open the door, knowing too well what will await him. As he steps into the warm room, the first thing he sees is the broad back of Porthos, who is kneeling infront of the bed. Athos closes the door behind him with a thud, causing the big man to turn his head for a brief moment. The worried look in his eyes, says everything. "Nightmares?"

Porthos doesn't need to answer, as d'Artagnan whimperes again, his hands trashing against his brother as his mind recognizes him as a foe. "Hey, you're safe. It's us. Porthos and Athos." He sighs as his words won't reach the ears of the poor boy, who's still trying to get away from his gentle hands.

"There's something he didn't tell us." Athos guesses as he sis down in a chair, getting more and more restless with each second. He just wants to tell them the new informations he got, but first d'Artagnan needs to wake up. Previous attempts had shown too well that they shouldn' wake the boy while he has a nightmare, as Porthos went out it with a blue eye and Athos had a sprained finger for a few weeks. He needs to calm down before they can wake him, but it seems to get harder with every new nightmare.

At first there were just a few, d'Artagnan seemed to cope well. But with the time passing, the memories seem to eat him up. Porthos nods his agreement, still trying to soothe the boy with gentle touchs and calming words. "Do you think he lied to us? That... you know... that something happened?"

Athos bites his lips and shrugs his shoulder. He really wants to belief that d'Artagnan didn't lie, that they rescued him in time, but the way the Gasocn behaves tells him something different. "We should talk to him about it. But not now, I have learned something important. About Aramis." Porthos head shots up the moment he hears the name of his lost brother and he turns around completly to Athos. "What is it?"

"I've talked to a woman on the market and she is the wife of a sailor, he took off the day Aramis was brought onto the ship. He-"

"Don't." D'Artagnan's heartbreaking plead interrupts Athos. The young Musketeer has his eyes clenched shut, his whole body is shaking as he is living through whatever had happened to him weeks ago. "Please don't."

"D'Artagnan listen, you are save. You are with your brothers, here is no one who can harm you. That's just a bad dream." As Porthos lays his hand on the boys sweaty brow, he finally seems to calm down, the tension leaving his body. "Yes, just like that. Calm down, you're save." Porthos repeats as he watches how d'Artagnan takes a deep breath and opens his eyes. He seems to be confused for a few moments before he realizes where he really is. A weak smile forms on his lips as he sits up, his hands still shaking.

"You're okay?" Porthos asks concerned. As d'Artagnan nods, he wants nothing more than to push him to the truth, to tell them what really happened. But as much as he feels that it shouldn't wait anylonger, it has. They have to find Aramis. "Athos got some news." He informs the Gascon who seems immediatly to be more awake.

"There was this woman on the market. Her husband is a sailor and I think that he might travelled with the ship Aramis was brought away. She told me that her husband took off to Africa, to Cameroon to be more precisely."

The three men exchange a worried look. As much as they're relieved to have gotten at last some kind of information after all these weeks of searching and asking around, they now seem to stand infront of the next insurmountable wall.

"How are we supposed to get there? And even if we find some way, it will take weeks to reach Cameroon!" "And we don't know for sure that he is there," Porthos ads to d'Artagnan's question.

Athos nods, he had thought about it too. "It shouldn't be impossible to find a ship that sails there. We will have to pay the Captain to take us with him, but I think we can make this too. It's not impossible to get to Cameroon. But, we can't know for sure Aramis will be there." And alive, Athos ads in his thoughts. "But this is the only hint we got and we should follow it."

"What about the regiment? We're already away for quite some time."

"They will survive without us fo another few weeks. But Aramis may not." Porthos stands up and starts to throw his clothes into a bag. "What are you waiting for?"

Without any further hesitations, the three Musketeers grab all their belongings and leave the Inn just a few minutes later.

They split up in order to find a ship that could get them to Cameroon, or at least close to it.

In the end it's d'Artagnan who runs through the harbor, shouting for his friends through heavy breaths. Both come running from different ships, looking at him with concern. "What?" They ask in synch as the three meet at the road.

"I've found someone. He travels to Nigeria and would take us with him for some payment." D'Artagnan tries to calm his breath down as he smiles roadly at his friends. "How much?" Porthos begins to scramble through his saddlebag.

"300 livre." Porthos stops in his tracks and stares at the boy in disbelief. "Where are we going to get that much money?" He empties content of his bag into his hands, counting 20 livre. "That's all I got."

D'Artagnan finds another fourty livre in his pockets, sighing. "Even if we give EVERTHING we got, it won't be enough. We could sell the horses."

Athos finally finds his own moneybag and empties in his palm. "130 livre. Adding yours makes 190." He sighs, knowing that there is more money back in Paris, but there is no time to get it. "You sell the horses, I stay with the Captain so he won't take off without us." Athos orders and takes the coins from the others, before they head off with the animals.

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

"Schneller!" Aramis flinches as he hears the sound of leather hitting skin right beside him. He doesn't dare to look up from his task as the guard comes closer, shouting orders and insults (he guesses) in german. As he notices that the man is behind him, he moves the pickaxe even faster and harder on the rocks beneath him.

Dirt is whirled up with each stroke, making him cough every few breaths. His left palm is already sore and burns with every stroke, but there is no one to relieve the hand with his other one, as his wrist won't cooperate with such an abuse. The sun is burning down on them since the early morning hours, the thin shirt he wears is already soaked through and clings to his skin. His face his red and burned and his throat feels as if it would rip apart any moment. He catches himself mourn for his hat, he had lost a long time ago as he was still in france.

The first time he looks up from his exhausting task is as words he can't understand are shouted through the quarry and the slaves being forced closer to the house. Aramis heaves the pickaxe onto his shoulder and follows the others. More than once since his arrival he had thought about using it against the guards. It would be so easy to kill one. But that's the problem. He could easily kill one guard, before ten others notice and shoot him without hesitation. Sometimes a quick death seems heavenly to him. But then he remembers the faded faces of his brothers, the promise he had made them and himself at the beginning of his ordeal. He would stay alive for them. In other moments, when his mind isn't that clear he almsot forgets them. It's mostly in the hours they are kept in the barn, chackled to the wall like animals, where Aramis mind gets confused again. When the burning sun settles and the suffocating darkness makes everything seem way too silent, it's getting harder for him to think clearly. All the pictures from his time on the ship rush through his mind and he can't seperate reality from imagination anymore.

The gates of the barn are opened with a creak and the slaves pushed inside. They have to leave their tools outside before they head inside, so Aramis lays down the pickaxe and sits down against the wall, waiting to be chained up as every evening. He had lost his will to fight a long time ago. It had only been days since he arrived in africa, but he had already seen how the guards whipped slaves to death or gutted them like a fish. He just tries to survive somehow and that he achives by submitting.

As some of the men in the barn talk quietly with each other, telling about the families back in france or what they had worked, the once so chatty Musketeers stays silent. Not only the weeks alone had tought him that he better keeps his mouth shut but also the insults from the other men. Many of them came with him to the island, were part of the revolt at the ship - and even if he doesn't know how, Aramis know they surely were also punished for it. And they thought it was his fault. And it was. Aramis knows that he had made a mistake, and noone could punish him for it than he himself. Still, he can't ignore the ache in his heart as he catches the angry looks and hears the words spoken to him.

He sighs, leaning his back against the wall and closes his eyes. He thinks back to his brothers, tries to cling the memories he knows that are real. He thinks about the day d'Artagnan stormed into the garrison like a lunatic, trying to kill Athos. Aramis can't stop himself from smiling. D'Artagnan was so desperate, so determined and he is still imperessed how fast the boy found his place between them. He thinks about the endless nights he had spent with Porthos in a tavern, he chatting with some barmaid while his friend earned soe money with cardgames. He thinks about Athos, the small twitch of his lips when he is amused - the times he had been the reason of this hint of a smile on his stoic friends face.

His mind drifts off to Anne. How beautiful she is, how proud, how elegant, how strong. He can't stop admire this woman for everything she does or says. He thinks about his son, their son. But then an image comes to his mind, the feigned memorie how he sees how the boy is shot. His stomach twists and he frowns, trying to order his thoughts. The memories seems so real, it had visited him many times in the past weeks. But he can't quite understand. It just doesn't feel like Louis would be dead, but on the other hand there is this memorie. He feels his throat tighten at the thought, his breath fastens as he can't seperate reality and imagination anymore and this drives him even more crazy. He knows he can't tust his mind any longer and the uncertainity of which memorie is real and which imagined makes him feel helpless. Who is he when can't even trust his own thoughts?


	20. Chapter 20

D'Artagnan and Porthos are walking towards Athos, who stares at the open sea. The moment they reach him, he turns around and allows to show the hope he feels. "Did you get enough money?"

The Gascon reaches in his pockets to get out the bag of money. "We didn't get much for the horses, but we agreed to give our saddlebags and their contents with them, so we got just enough to pay for the crossing."

Athos takes the bag and takes a short glance in it, it seems to be enough. He feels some pressure leave, but a feeling of guilt exchanges it. His brothers have given everything they got, every coin and their few belongings too, to pay for the crossing, while he still has most of his money back in Paris, as well as a bag full of clothes with him.

"I will buy you new things when we're home again." He promises, his eyes fixing again on the blue ocean. Porthos shrugs as his gaze follows his Captain's eyes. "I would sell my soul to the devil if it would bring Aramis back."

"He wouldn't like that," D'Artagnan comments with a grin on his lips.

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

 _Days later..._

Porthos closes the door behind him as quiet as possible and walks over to his Captain, who leans against the railing. "The boy's trashing around, again." Athos frowns as his fingers fumble with the last coin they got. "He has to talk to us. He can't hold it back forever."

Porthos nods his agreement, but he knows as well as Athos how stubborn the boy can be. "I can't calm him down anymore. Everytime I try to touch him he kicks and punches. He won't wake up either." Athos puts the coin back in his pocket before he turns around to face the door of their room. "Have you noticed how jumpy he got since we returned? Flinches at every sudden movement."

There's a moment of silence between them, each one following their own thoughts, before Porthos finds his voice again. "What do we do if he really... you know... if he was assaulted?"

Athos sighs as he walks towards the door slowly. "Don't know. We will be there, that'S probably all we can do anyway." With that, he wlaks back into their room, Porthos right on his heels. D'Artagnan is still laying in his bed, tossing around. The sheets have fallen to the ground long ago, leaving him exposed to the cold air.

Athos decides that this can't keep going on as it does. So he lightens a candle, before he sits down on the boys bed, taking his wrists in one hand with a swift move. D'Artagnan's reaction follows immmediatly, as he starts to whimper and breath faster, desperatly trying to get out of the grip. Athos doesn't loosen his grip, scared that the boy could hurt himself or one of them, as he places his other hand on d'Artagnans shoulder to wake him. This causes the boy only to panic even more, too lost in his dark memories.

Suddenly a wave of cold water washes over him, making d'Artagnan gasp and rip his eyes open in shock. Porthos places the bucket down on the floor and sits down on the chair by the Gascons bed. D'Artagnan seems puzzled for a few seconds, before the tension leaves his body and he frees his hands of Athos' grip. "Why did you do that?" He asks angrily, as he sits up and wipes at his face. "Everything's soaked now." He mumbles and stands up from the wet bed, starting to unbutton his just as wet shirt.

"You had a nightmare." Athos explains, following the boys movements with concerned eyes. "Don't we all have them?" D'Artagnan asks, still annoyed by all the water on him, as he concentrates of redressing into one of Athos' shirts, as his own ones are all sold.

"D'Artagnan there's something you aren't telling us." Porthos grabs the boys wrist to stop him from dressing and to make him concentrate on the conversation instead. "I don't know what you mean." He struggles free and turns his back to his brothers as he puts on new breeches.

"What did really happen in the brothel?" Athos decides that it's times to know the truth and the boy needs to be pushed to tell, eventhough it may be unpleasent at first. "I've already told you."

"Not everything." Porthos growls and pushes d'Artagnan to sit on the bed, annoyed that he doesn't even look at them.

"I've told you everything you need to know!"

"And what is it that you think we don't need to know? Is that the reason why you flinch at unexpected touches and why you have nightmares? D'Artagnan, we know that back there probably more happened than you've told and we want to help you. But for that you need to tell us."

"And what if I don't want to?" The Gascon stares at them with stubborn looks, his arms crossed infront of his chest makes him look somehow even more younger, more like a lost child. "We won't let you leave this room before you don't tell us." D'Artagnan huffs, shaking his head annoyed. "You can't force me. I don't have to tell you everything that happens in my life. You may be my comrades, but that doesn't give you the right to know everything."

Athos takes in the look on d'Artagnans face, noticing the fear behind the mask of fury. "We're more than comrades, we're your brothers. And we have to trust each other with our lifes. But how are we supposed to trust you with our life, when you don't even trust us to tell us the truth?" The Captain hopes that his appeal to their brotherhood and duty could make the boy finally see sense. But making him talk is obvious harder than thought.

D'Artagnan stands up aprubtly, glancing at both of them with anger. "In that case I can do without brothers." No one trys to stop him as he rushes through the door, each one to shocked by his outburst.

"Maybe we shouldn't have pushed him that much." Porthos sighs, staring at the now empty bed.

"At least he somehow admitted that there truly is something he hides from us. Let's give him some time to think."

The moment d'Artagnan finds a empty cabinetn and has closed the door behind him, he leans against the wall, his shoulders heaving heavily beneath each sob. All this time he had tried so hard to hide, but each night these cruel memories come back and haunt him. In his sleep he's helpless, he can't defend him self or act as if all was fine. Athos and Porthos were never suppposed to know or to even guess. He had tried so hard to make them think that they saved him time. Not only to save hiself from the embarassement but to save them from athe guilt, they would definitely feel if they knew that they had been too late.

He still feels dirty every morning he wakes up. So many times he had tried to wash the emories away, wanted to rub the unwante touches from his skin, which left it red and sore.

But it didn't matter what he tried, the feeling of nasty hands on his body, the humilitation and helplessness won't leave him.

 **I know this chapter is quite short, but it's hard to find time to write at the moment.**


	21. Chapter 21

Porthos grunts as he stumbles against the railing, Athos steady arm around his waist the only thing keeping him from falling into the raging sea. "Did I ever tell you that I hate ships?" The tall man mutters as he straightens back to his full height. Another wave crashes against the boat, making him fall into Athos' arms, causing.

"It's the weather's fault. Wouldn't it be that stormy we wouldn't sway that much." Athos explains with his usual stoic expression. As he is sure that Porthos won't fall again, he starts walking again. "The lad has to be here somewhere. He can't be gone."

A scream, followed by a loud crash and a moan causes the two musketeers to look at each ohter with a concerned look, before they start running around the next corner.

"D'Artagnan!" Athos' voice has something sharp in it, as in the tieshe scolded his men for something they did wrong. Porthos doesn't stop him, as he watches how the Gascon kneels ontop of one of the sailors, his main-gauche pressed against his throat. The sailor stares wide-eyed at his attacker, his chest heaving heavy with each breath he takes.

"What's this about?" Athos wants to know as he takes two large steps towards the men on the ground, noticing red bruises around the sailor's throat.

 _Moments earlier..._

"Hey!" The rough voice makes d'Artagnan jump, his hand on the hilt of his sword in the same moment. He just had calmed down from his breakdown and had left the storage room, eyes still red and swollen from crying. "What were you searching in there, huh?!" The sailor emands to know as he comes closer, his steps echoing on the wooden floor. D'Artagnan forces himself to breath slowly as he turns around, the grip around his sword tightens as if it would keep him from panicking. "Nothing. No need to startle me."

The last word leaves his lips as his eyes finally meet the face of the sailor.

There's no way he could hold back anylonger.

D'Artagnan doesn't quite remember how they landed on the ground, but he does know how good it feels as his hands close around the mans throat, seeing him struggle to breath beneath him.

 _Now..._

D'Artagnan his hauled onto his feet by his Captain, earning an angry look from him. "What are you doing?" Athos asks, not seeing any reason why the boy would attack a sailor. D'Artagnan gulps as he takes a few steps back, his eyes still fixed on the man on the floor. He feels a steady presence beside him, tall and comforting, as Porthos stays close to him, their shoulders touching as they watch as Athos asks the sailor if he was uninjured. "What did he do?" Porthos asks, knowing that his brother wouldn't attack someone innocent - hoping he wouldn't. He feels the lad shaking beside him and lays his big hand on the one that grips around the hilt of the sword. "Let it go, we're here now." D'Artagnan sighs, loosening his grip. "Will you now tell me why he deserved being strangled by you?"

There are many reasons why any of them would fight a man, but strangling seems quite untypicial for them, Porthos thinks. "It's him." D'Artagnan's voice is as unsteady as his whole appearance and he thinks he would fall the moment the next wave would crash against the ship. "Him?" Porthos asks and raises his brow.

"I-It was him." There's no more d'Artagnan can say as bile rises in his throat. And there'S no more he needs to say.

Porthos turns the lad around so they both face the water, persuading himself that it's because d'Artagnan shouldn't need to see the man any longer. But, eventhough this is also a reason, it 's truly because Porthos isn't sure if he could contain his anger if he has to look at the disgusting face of the sailor one more time.

Even Athos, the most controlled one of them, can't stop himself from binding the rope, he always carry with him, a little bit too tight and pushing the man a little bit too hard, so he falls to the ground without the possibility to catch himself. "Oh what a shame." He mutters and grips the man's arm tightly to haul him back to his feet.

"What's all of this about?" The sailor demands to know as he struggles against the rope cutting into his skin.

Athos drags him away from the others and into the direction of the storage rooms. Just as they are too far away that d'Artagnan could hear them, he explains. "You assaulted a King's Musketeer. You will be under arrest until we're back in Paris." The man gowls, trying one more time to get free. "But we wouldn't mind if you try to escape, though." Athos ads as he pushes the man into an small and empty storage room. "We would have to kill you before you hurt someone else, that would be our duty and - coincidentally - our satisfaction." Before the sailor can answer, he slams the door shut, not able to contain his anger any longer.

As he returns to his brothers, they sit on the ground, backs leaning against the railing. None of them speaks as they each stare at some spot on the wall. D'Artagnan has his kneen drawn to his chest, hands clasping around them, shaking.

"He will see justice." Athos announces as he sits down on the wall to face both of them. "I wish you hand't stopped me." D'Artagnan mutters, still not daring to look any of them in the eyes. His voice is full of pain, fury and shame.

Porthos sighs, he somehow wishes for the same, but they are still Musketeers, honorable men. "Do you want to talk about it?" He offers, watching how d'Artagnans eyes slowly wander over to him - the pain clearly written on his face as he shakes his head. A husky whisper leaving his tounge. "No. Not yet."

Athos and Porthos nod. At least he admits now that not everything is fine. That's the first of thousand small steps on his way to his old self.

"We will listen the moment you feel like you need to." Athos announces, offering him a reassuring look.

D'Artagnan nods, before he looks away again.

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

"You know I liked it ouside more." Aramis mutters as he crawls through the cave, his back scratching against the rough stones around him. "You just got fat." Marsac answers laughing. The marksman blinks away some dust that flew into his eye, his eyes still adjusting to the dark. The image of Marsac is gone the moment he opens his eyes again, but his voice still roams through his mind. "A little bit of hard work keeps you in shape." The man, he once called his best friend, jokes. Aramis smiles sadly, knowing that all of this is just an illusion but wishing so much that it wasn't. He really would like someone by his side. Someone who talks to him nicely, who doesn't scream in a strange language. He could use a hug too, some kind of physical contact that doesn't hurt. He could use to see some friendly faces, too. He suddenly feels bad for imagining Marsac's voice and not the one of his brothers, the ones that doesn't left him in the forest to die. As he thinks about Porthos, he can't hold back a chuckle, imagining how the tall man would get stuck in the small tunnels if he were with him.

Aramis sighs in relief as the tunnel finally opens and he can nearly stand up completly. His head is scratching against the ceiling, but at least his back gets some kind of release. He rubs his bloody hands against his breeches in order to get some of the small stones from them. He caughs as more dust wirls through the air as the other slaves let their pickaxes fall down on the stone. He follows their example, hoping to find some gold today. That would mean a warm meal and maybe he would be allowed to take a quick bath in the river.


	22. Chapter 22

The sun hasn't rose yet, the animals in the barns are still asleep while just a few servants are awake, running through the kitchens to prepare breakfast. But Aramis wouldn't know any of this, as he's still chained up at the wall, trying to get some hours of restful sleep. He can't get himself to really sleep, always half awake - a behavior that was trained to him since his fist years as a soldier. Therefor he hears the guards approaching before the gates open, immediatly trying to make himmself as small as possible, in the hope not to be seen. Every few days they come in and get some slaves - the men who are forced to leave with them are never to be seen again. No one knows what happens to them and no one really wants to know.

Aramis guesses that the sick and useless ones are most likely killed, but often healthy and strong men are taken too. Maybe they are sold to someone other who pays good for them. As Aramis acts as if he would sleep, desperatly trying to to move, not to attract any attention to him, he notices how two guards come closer to him. His hearts beats hard against his chest as he feels hands grip tigghtly around his arms, forcing him upright before his chains are unlocked. No words are spoken as he is dragged outside, two more slaves with some other guards. As much as he wants to, he doesn't fight. Where would be the point? He would just get killed before he has the chance to run away, and even if he ever could run there's no place to go. If he wasn't captured again by some slave traers, he would die because of thirst in this burning heat.

After a few minutes of walking an impressive estate comes into his view, the one he had seen on his first day inn africa. He had never been in there, the barn and the quarry the only places he was allowed to go to. He frowns, wondering why they would kill the slaves i the estate innstead on some field - it would be a great mess cleaning the house everytime someone is killed. Aramis doesn't makes an effort to ask what will happen to him as he knows that the guards won't understand him anyway.

They're pushed through the front door and in the next room at the right. An quite big room with book shelves and sofas standing by the high walls. Paintings and exotic plants decorating it. The three slaves are pushed to their knees, and it's the first time Aramis really notices the men to his right. Both look quite healthy - as healthy a man can be under this circumstances. One is thin and weak, but still young and able to do hard work nevertheless, while the other one is a man in his fortys, broad shoulders and a rough face, shaped from years of war and work. Aramis doesn't flinch or turn around as the door behind them is opened again, slow foodsteps echoing through the room.

But he can't keep his eyes faced to the floor, curiosity and what's left of his cockiness making him to stare the approaching man right in the eyes. He's dressed fine, like a Comte or some rich business man. He recognizes the face, which is now framed with a well-cutted grey beard. It's the man that had bought him at the auction, something that feels as if it was a lifetime ago.

The man let's his gaze roam over the three slaves, stopping at Aramis who is still stubborning looking at him, feeling the last of his urge to fight return for a short moment. The trader says something to his guards, Aramis can't understand. What he does understand is the kick into his back which causes him to fall forward, catchinng himself in the lst moment before his face would have hit the floor. He grits his teeth as a wave of pain spreads through his wrist and forces himself to kneel again, his back as straight as possible. He is determind to not show his pain and manages an unredable mask on his face. Not wanting to push the guards too much, he now turns his gaze towards the floor.

Without further words being spoken, the slaves are dragged back to their feet and down the long corridors. The guards lead them down a few stairs and into the basement of the estate. A torch on the wall is the only thing that lightens the room, the air is thick and Aramis feels as if there was oxygen to breath. The grip around his arm loosens, as one of the guards walks forward, holding the torch so they can see what he is doing. Slowly, shadows appear in the orange light, forming into bodys. Corpses to be more precisely. Then, the guard takes a cleaver from the ground and indicating to a pile at the wall. As he walks closer to it, Aramis recognizes what it is - his heart missing a few beats. Arms, legs, heads... parts of the corpses laying piled up there.

"Ihr," the guards says the word slowly and louder than necessary as he points at the slaves to explain what he wants from them. Then his finger wanders to the bodyparts scattered along the floor. "Zerhacken." He points at the cleaver and then on the corpses that are still untouched. "Macht das Verbrennen einfacher." He ads, earning a confused look from Aramis and the thin man. The one with the broad shulders huffs instead, muttering something in the same language. Aramis frowns, suprised that they even enslaved their own landsman. The guards don't bother themselves anylonger with explaining as they leave the room, locking the door behind them.

"We have to chop up the bodies, so they can burn them easiler." The broad man suddenly explains with a thick accent in french. Aramis gulps, staring at all the blood that paints the floor.

"We better start working." He mutters, taking the cleaver into his uninjured hand.

"Forgive me father." He mutters before he closes his eyes and lets the blad fall down onto the shoulder of the corpse by his feet.


	23. Chapter 23

His legs give in the moment the door is opened and a tray with food and water is brought in the room. Markus, the german one, gives each of them a piece of bread and a glass of water. Aramis gulps down the liquid thankfully, before wiping his sweaty brown exhausted.

„You need to eat, too." Joseph points at the bread in Aramis' shaking left hand, his right one hanging abonded to his side. The musketeer shakes his head, the view in front of him making it impossible for him to eat. His stomach twists as he takes a closer look to the corpses, to the arms and legs he has cut from it's bodies. „No human should be treated like this after his death." He sighs and now for the first time in weeks he feels scared, scared to die. He had always found peace in the knowing that his soul would go to god, that he would get what he deserve – hopefully heaven. But if he would die in this place it would mean that he would get no proper burial, that his soul would be burned along with his body – and no one quite knows what then happens with it.

Aramis finds himself longing for the quarry. It may be was an exhausting task, but not as cruel as this one. And at least he was allowed to go outside, to see the sun and feel it's warmth on his skin. Here he has nothing but a torch and dead men around him. For a man who always stayed strong because of his faith, hope and his brothers, there is little to give him sstrength now. Aramis feels himself retreating back to god more and more, but he doesn't seem to hear his prayers. Markus and Joseph were enslaved long before, broken long ago. They work to survive, they eat to survive – but every hope of living is gone. They do what's necessary in order to survive but everything else is unimportant. So, each of them stays mostly to themselves. Aramis is alone.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

„Has he talked to you yet?" Porthos stares at the harbor in front of them, which they will reach in a few hours. After weeks on the sea there is nothing more wonderful to see than land, he thinks. Endless storms have made the journey exhasuting and dangerous, causing Porthos to get sick more than ones. He just isn't made for the sea and the thought to have to endure such a journey a second time makes him shudder. But he will endure it for his brother.

„No. Doesn't talk at all." Athos's fingers play with their last coin, a habit he accustomed to through the last weeks. It was normal for the musketeers to stick togethe for days or even weeks, but usually it was quite pleasent and entertaining. This time had been different from the start. With Aramis missing, and d'Artagnan keeping more to himself, Athos felt quite lonely most of the time. Porthos seemed distracted and worried most of the time and didn't talk much either. So there was not the usual chattering from his brothers, no jokes and no laughing. Athos had found himself searching for someone to talk to more than ones – something he had never thought he would do. The Captain may doesn't like to talk much, but through the years with his brothers he had accostumed to always have someone around who talks to him. He listens, he sometimes grins at them or shakes his head in annoyance, but he was never alone. But now he feels like it he was.

„I don't want to push him. But after we cought this bastard, I had hoped that he would finally talk." Porthos confesses, his heart torn between worry for the Gascon and concern for Aramis. Sometimes, he isn't quite sure or whom he should worry more and when he worries for d'Artagnan he feels bad for not thinking about Aramis and the other way around too. There hadn't been in an hour in which Porthos wasn't concerned, in which he didn't feared for at least one of his brothers. There hadn't been an hour of peace or happiness. Each time he laughed, he saw d'Artagnan's empty eyes staring at him or imagined Aramis being whipped and beaten in a slave camp – causing his stomach to twist and the smile retreat.

„We will give him time. Be with him and show him that we won't leave him. He will know best when it's the right time to talk." Athos' thoughts drift off back to the days he had met Porthos and Aramis. How they visited him in the bars he hid in the nights. How they just sat and drank with him, not asking anything. Just talking to each other and giving him company. At first, he was annoyed but soon he found himself feeling save in their presence. It felt right. It took him years, but eventually, he told them about the past that had haunted him. D'artagnan would just need time and his brothers, just like he did. Still, Athos hopes that he lad wouldn't need years.

The commands of the captain and shouts of the sailors disturb their comversation, as the ship comes ever closer to the harbor.

Porthos decides to head back to their room in order to pack their few belongings and tell d'Artagnan to get ready. They should rest and eat as much as they can the next hours to be strong for the next part of their journey. They had planned this already weeks ago. Once in the harbor they will ask around and hopefully get to know where Aramis had been brought. Then they will try to borrow horses or find someone who travels in the same direction and can take them with them. But knowing that Musketeers won't be treated in a german colony the same way as in france, meaning that there won't be many people who want to help them, they will have to steal. None of them likes the idea, but with no money left there won't be another option.

„Captain!" Athos calls out over the other voices, gaining the man's attention. „What is it?" The older frenchman asks in return. „How long will you stay here?"

„Two weeks, maybe a few days more. You need a ride back hugh?" Athos nods, his fingers fidgeting once again with the coin. „But I fear there is no money we can give you at the moment. But as a King's Musketeer I can assure you that you will be paid wealthy once we are back in france. The King will show himself thankful that you helped the Captain of his Musketeers." Athos doesn't like showing his authority or recalling to it, but soemtimes the status as the Captain of the Musketeers, as well as being nobleborn, can come in handy. And if this can help getting his brothers back hoe safe, he say whatever is necessary.

The older man takes in Athos for a few seconds before he finally nody. „I think as a good landsman it is my duty to help the Musketeers, isn't it? But we can't wait for you, if you aren't on the ship when we leave, there is nothing more I can to for you."

„Thank you, Captain." Athos leaves, knwoing too well that the man doesn't help them out of hoor or duty but because of the money, but he finds himself not caring about it. What is important is to know that his brothers will be save. He just needs to get them back in time.

 **They're getting closer to Aramis and a full reunion… let's hope there won't be anything standing between them ;)  
I know this chapter isn't that long and exciting, but I promise it will get better soon!  
University just had started and it's getting busier at work too, so I will try to write on the weekends or on the train!**


	24. Chapter 24

„Finally!" Porthos jumps from the boat first, landing on solid ground. „Did I ever mention that I hate ships?" He asks as he stares at the boat with disgust in his eyes. „Only a few hundred times in the past weeks." Athos mutters undere his breath as he takes in the view in front of him.

„Do we split up?" As well as Athos, d'Artagnan has already noticed how big this port iks. There is place enough for a few hundred ships and enough Inn's, taverns and brothels to satisfy all of the sailors needs. The familiar sound of a busy market reaches them, eventhough it is hidden behind behind three long lines of houses. People from a variety of countrys are walking around them, speaking languages none of them have ever heard before. But most of the people are men from germany, living in the foreign country. From a boat right beside them slaves are being pushed down onto land, a view which the people here are more used to than anyone should be. Porthos growls as he sees the chackles around their ankles and wrists and the collars around their necks.

There are not only men among the slaves, but young women too. None of these people look healthy or unharmed, their dark skin is covered in bruises and wounds.

„I'm going to talk to the Captain of this ship." Athos announces, knowing that having Porthos with him won't do any good. „You two seearch for the Inn with a eagle on it's porch, the owner is most likely to speak, the Captain had said." There are more places they could ask around, but Athos doesn't want neither d'Artagnan nor Porthos to be alone in such a place. He would rather take longer in their search for Aramis, than risk loosing another brother – again. Nevertheless he knows how urgent it is to find the lost marksman.

Without waiting for their answer, Athos goes over to the man in lead of the slave ship -he's currently shouting order to the sailors, in a language that could be german.

„Excuse me," Athos tries to get the man's attention and ignores the whip in his hands. „Was?" He asks and turns around annoyed.

„Dou you speak french?" Athos asks, not being able to speak any other language. He had heard a few sentences in spanish or german while being or guard at the palace, but never enough to really speak it.

„A little bit." The Captain answers with a thick accent frowning.

„I'm searching for someone. A slave acutally."

„Oh I have plenty of them." The Captain points at the line of men and women in front of him, curling the whip around his hand as a grin forms on his lips.

Athos shakes his head. „No, I'm searching for a particular one. He was brought to Cameroon a few weeks ago. Do you know anything about the slaves there? Where are they brought?"

The Captain frowns again as he takes in the man in front of him for the first time. „I guess you're a soldier or something," he points at the pauldron at Athos' shoulder before he shrugs. „Why are you searching him? Who is he that you would travel so far for a single man?"

„That's none of your buisness, I suppose. Listen, I don't have time to argue with you. Just tell me what you know and you will be paid worthy." The Captain laughs, showing his yellow teeth. „Show me the money and then I will try to remember something."

Athos growls and tries to find another way to get this man to speak. He is certain that the Captain surely has heard of anything and he needs to know what. And then as the idea strikes his mind, he can't say he is proud. Again, he plays with the coin betwen his fingers. „Soon a ship from france will arrive with plenty of slaves. I am a King's Musketeer and so I can assure you to make it possible to give you some. Let's say – ten?"

„Twenty."

„Fifteen." The Captain nods and grins, pointing at something – or someone – behind Athos. „Is this first installment?"

Athos turns around to see what the man is pointing at, just to see Porthos coming up to them. He gulps down the anger – he needs this information and has to play his part. „He is mine. Maybe you can get him when I have my man back."

„Hey 'Thos! The lad-" „Silence!" Athos huffs at the big man before he can speak more and shoots him any icy gaze. Porthos presses his lips together but understands that he probably has interrupted something, so he stands behind Athos and keeps his mouth shut.

„How can I be sure that you stay true to your word?"

„You can't be. But do you want these slaves or not?"

The Captain seems to think about it for a few moments, before he finally agrees. He has nothing to loose at all. „Slaves from Cameroon are brought to the quarrys, most times. I think to remember that the last ship – that one that arrrived a few weeks ago – belongs to Mister Richter, he owns the quarry in the north. Don't know any more."

Athos nods his thanks, assuring that the man will be paid, before he grabs Porthos at his arm and drags him away. „Were you talking about me?" The big man finally asks as they're far away from the slave trader. „Don't be stupid." Athos answers, before asking where d'Artagnan is.

„Trying to find some horses."

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmm

„Hey, if you don't work faster all of us will be damned!" Joseph hisses, as Aramis once again stands up straight to take a few deep breaths. The bones and muscles are thick, so cutting them with only one hand is nearly impossible – Aramis has started to use his right, injured hand a while ago, but the pain that the unwelcomed action causes, makes him feel dizzy. „I'm trying." He mutters before he starts working again.

He isn't angry at Joseph for grousing at him. They are all just scared. He is too. If the guards aren't satisfied with their work they will be punished and most likely end like the spilled body parts to their feet. So Aramis tries to work harder, ignoring the pain that spreads through his hand and arm, making him feel hot and cold at the same time.

But then, everytime he cuts through the flesh of dead ones, he starts to wonder why he tries to survive at all. Not even hell can be worse than this. At day, he is plagued by guilt and pain, while in the short hours of sleep nightmares plague him. He remembers the promise he had made to himself and his brothers – to survive until they save him. But this seems to be an eternity ago, in another life and another Aramis. He doesn't know how long exactly, but it has to be month's till he has last seen france and with each day passing he doubts his saving more and more. He could end this all so easily, he thinks as he looks down at the deathly tool in his swollen hand.

But he doesn't.

Mmmmmmmmmmmm

„Mount up! Fast!" D'Artagnan is already riding on the back of black beauty, the reigns of two other horses in his hands. Porthos and Athos each grab one animal and jump on their backs, kicking their feet into the beasts. The yelling of en behind them is heard for quite a while, until their persecutors have finally given up.

In the time they have waited for d'Artagnan, Porthos had managed to snatch a map from an unwatched desk in a busy tavern. They had been lucky, that it was a map not only for nigeria but Cameroon too.

They ride fast through the desert-like nature, not feeling the burning sun on their red skin as new hope fills each of them. They will find him and they will save him.


	25. Chapter 25

They are alone. For hours there's not been any other human being or any villages. There's just the horses, them and sand. The sun is standing high, blinding them and burning the parts of their bodys that aren't protected by clothes.  
None of them have talked for hours, each one lost in his own thoughts as time crawls by. The horses are just as tired as their riders, but there's no time for rest.

It's D'Artagnan's voice that disturbs the silence first, rough from thirst and not using it for quite a time.

„I'm sorry."

Porthos, who's riding at the front, turns around, a frown on his face. „What for?" He asks as he slows down his horse to ride on the boy's left side.

„For not letting you help me. I know you think you need to be there for me and I'm just closing up to you." He doesn't dare to look one of his brothers in the eyes as his gaze fixes on some lonely tree in the distance. „I've thought about this for some time now. If our places were switched… I would want you to talk to me. And I'm quite thankful that you're not forcing me, eventhough you want to." 

None of the dares to interrupt the lad, so they just watch him carefully as he takes in a deep breath. Athos doesn't miss the trembling in the Gascons hands, the wavering of his voice as he speaks again.

„But I just can't talk about it and I don't think I ever will be able to. This is… this is just one thing I can't tell you. But I want you to stop worrying. I don't want to be a burden to you, we have more important things to worry about. Aramis should be our onnly concern for now. I'm fine, you know."

Athos sighs, wiping some sweat from his face. „You shouldn't worry about us worrying about you. Just do what seems best for you. We won't evr force you to talk, but I really do think that it could help. I know, somethings seem as you could never voice them, but you find out that you actually can. Just know that we are always there to listen, if you feel like talking. Don't carry this burden alone. And sometimes… sometimes it's okay to not be fine. Even a soldier is allowed to grief and let his sorrow take over. We're all only human, d'Artagnan."

An oppressive silence hangs over the three men as each one things about what their Captain just had said. D'Artagnan grips the reigns of his horse teighter, cuasing his knuckles to turn white as he tries to keep his breath calm. He had tried so hard to not show the pain he is in, but all the time he had known that he had failed. He had seen the concern in his brother's eyes and the caution in their movements. He had tried not to flinch at firendly touchs or wake up screaming from a nightmare – but that are just things he can't control. He wishes he could, but he can't. Although he wishes for nothing other than being treated like before, he knows he won't be. His brothers won't stop worrying about him as long as he doesn't act like a normal person. As long as he shows his pain, they will handle him like an egg that's about to break any second.

„Is there anything we can do to help you?" Porthos asks carefully, not wanting to push the lad too much. 

D'Artagnan let's out a shuddering breath, trying to order his thoughts. He's torn back and forth between closing the wall around him completly or tearing it down to let his brothers is. He knows he can't jsut forget what had happened, that there has to be a time wehre he has to deal with it, but not now. Now they have to find their lost brother, he is the one they should worry about now. Furthermore is not ready yet. He doesn't know if he ever will be, he is just certain that right now he isn't.

„Can we … Can we just forget this?" As Athos is about to disagree, the Gascon holds up is hand. „Not forever. I know I can't go on like this forever. But can we all agree that Aramis should be our only concern now and that this thing can wait? I am alive and fit for duty, I can wait. Aramis can't. I am no use if we deal with it now."

None of them really likes this deal, but in the end they can't force d'Artagnan to anything and agree with him. They will deal with it later. But silently Athos and Porthos agree to not take an eye from the Gascon once. They won't leave him alone another time.

mmmmmmm

„How long will it take to arrive at the quarry the Captain had talked about?" Porthos watches how the sun settles, turning the sky into a mix of orange and blue.

„Four days if we can keep this pace up." Athos looks down at the map before he tries to search for something to indicate that they're going into the right direction. He hadn't told his brothers yet and won't do it soon, but the Captain has lost any point of orientation hours ago. There are no roads or villages to orientate on, only sand and a few cacti.

„We should search for some water and settle there for the night." D'Artagnan suggests as he looks around that could give them an hint where to find water. „I think there are a few more trees in the distance." He squeezes his eyes in orer to recognize more, but it stays a few blurry shadows.

„Let's hope you are right."

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

 _Six days later…_

The door is being ripped open roughly, before three guards run into the dark room.

Aramis let's his axe fall down and backs to the wall, knowing that any sign of resistance only will verything make worse. The guards seem angry as they take in the sight in front of them. Bodys piled up at the right side. As more and more slaves are killed, the men just couldn't keep up. They all are exhausted, working day and night to full fill the impossible task. With Aramis' broken hand, he was slowing them down even more.

The germans let their eyes wander over the three slaves, until they stop on Aramis, who's currently holding his hand against his chest in orer to ease the pain that's shooting through the limb.

There's no talking as he's grabbed at the arms and dragged outside. Too weak to protest, he stumbles the stairs upwards, just to be pushed down to his knees in the same room he was brought in before.

As he looks up to see the owner of the estate rising from the table and walking over to him, he closes his eyes for a brief moment.

„And do not fear those who kill the body but cannot kill the soul. Rather fear him who can destroy both soul and body in hell." As he opens his eyes again, the german stands in front of him – a rope in his hands.

The images of the bodys in the cellar flash through his mind, most of them with dark brusies around theis necks. 

Aramis takes a deep breath as the rope is bound around his throat, he feels it tighten uncomfortable.

He doesn't see the guards anymore, doesn't know if they have left or are just tanding behind him. All he sees is this rich man in front of him, who's soul must be damned to hell for alle the sins he had done. But it's his soul he should worry about now.

The man tightens the rope, making him gasp. The moment the rope brusies his skin and his breath i staken away, something enlightens insight him. A sparkle which turns into a flame of hope and strength. Something he thought he had lost completly.

He doesn't bother to try to rip the rope apart – it won't work. Instead his hands grip around the part of the rope that leds to the german man. With a swift move he had ripped it out the unprepared hands, causing the man to stumble.

The guards haven't left, he things as a kick to his back cuases him to fall to the floor. Whatever this flame was that had given him the strength to protest, it ends jsut as quikly as it came. Lying on the floor, he sudenly feels weaker than ever before. Exhausted and pained. He doesn't even try to stand up as he feels a knee on his lower back. He gasps again, as the rope tightens. But he doesn't fight.

„Forgive me brothers." Aramis manages to breath in another time, before the rope tightens again.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

„Is this a farm?" Porthos lifts his head at his Cpatains' question and trys to see what he sees. All he recognzies are a few shadows in the distance, but Athos' eyes had always been better than his.

„Maybe we were on the right path all the time." D'Artagnan answers as new strength fills his body and he gives his horse a light kick. Soon, the Musketeers are in a fast gallop, coming ever closer tot he lonely building.

As they come closer they can recognize more of it. It's more an estate than an simple buidling, hovering in the desert like an palace. To it's right are a few barns and fields in front of them. There are many people walking around or working – slaves they guess. „It has to be the estate of this Monsieur Richter."

The others nod their agreement just to ride even faster.

They tie the horses to a tree behind the building, in ordert o not bee seen by one oft he guards. „We should kill them all." Porthos growls as they have to watch how a slave is whipped.

„I wish we could, too, mon ami. But we have no right to kill here, this is not france. We have to get Aramis out and away as fast and swift as possible. We can't risk that the rumor than french soldiers are killing german men reaches the king."

„So what's the plan?" D'Artagnan peaks around the corner, just to hide behind it again as a guard looks into their direction.

„We have to find out where he is first." 

„I'm not seeing him on the fields and not in the quarry neither. He has tob e in the barns or in the building." Porthos unbuttons his pauldron and puts it into his saddlebags before he carefully hides his guns underneath his shirt. His sword is left behind with the horse as well. The others soon undertsand what he is doing and follow his example, until all three of them are left in simple clothes – looking like a common worker and not so much as musketeers.

„Let's check the barns first." Athos suggests and so they walk on the backside oft he building until they reach the barns. Making sure that there are no guards in sight, the slip into the wooden building. Darkness surrounds them as they walk through the barn just fo find a few poor men being chackled to the walls, but otherwise it is empty. No Aramis there.

„Then he has to be in the house." D'Artagnan sighs, knowing that it won't be easy to get their friend out of it undetected.


	26. Chapter 26

„Guards are coming." D'Artangan hisses, as he retreats back into the barn, hoping that he hadn't been seen.

„How many?" Athos tries to take a glance outside, but doesn't manage to recognize what the Gascon has previously seen, without exposing himself tot he guards.

„Three." Porthos shrugs and gets a knife out from his boot. „Nothing we can't handle."

Athos doesn't like this plan. They could attract attention to them during the fight, but on the other hand there was no place they could go and hide now.

As the sound of foodsteps reaches them, each musketeer draws his main-gauche. They hold their breaths as they press their backs to the wall beside the wall. With loud creak it opens, flushing the barn with light as three guards walk in slowly. It's the third man who notices them first, turns around quickly and draws a sword, pointing it's tip at d'Artagnan.

With only hhis dagger at hand, the Gascon cann't do much more than press more against the wall, not able to reach the man without risking his own life.

Fortunately the other two men need some more time to reach the musketeers, as they alread stand depper into the barn. Athos uses the opportunity and makes a fast jump at d'Artagnan's attacker, pushing his main-gauche into the neck with a sickening noise. By now, the other guards have reached them, drawing their swords as well. It's d'Artagnan's dagger that flies through the air and into the right arm of one oft he attackers. It doesn't kill him, but at least forces the man to take his sword into his weaker hand.

A furious growl beside him, makes Athos look to Porthos, who just parried a stroke of the other opponent with his main-gauche, steel clashing on steel. Without a proper sword, the big musketeer won't be able to parry the strokes for much longer. As Athos pulls his main-gauche from the dead body on the ground, he notices how the Gascon has to duck and jump to avoid the injured mans strokes.

Blood splashes onto his hands as he finally manages the dagger free and throws it immediatly at Porthos' opponent, bringing him down as the metal slashes through flesh. Porthos nods hhim his thanks shortly, before concentrating on the last man standing. As the injured guard is still focused on their youngest, it's an easy task for Porthos to sneak from behind and bring the man down with a stroke with the butt of his dagger against the head.

„Their clothes. Take them." It doesn't take much worrds of their Captain for the others to understand as they each start taking the clothes ffrom the lifeless bodys.

The leather jacket is a bit too tight on Porthos' arms and the brown cloak of Athos has red stains of blood on it, but in the end it should be enough to sneak around the grounds undetected. They hide the bodys beneath a pile of hay before they leave the barn behind.

As they walk along the estate to reach the front door, Porthos stops dead in hi stracks. „Look at this." He mutters as he glances through the windows. Behind the glass, a man lies on the ground, a rope around his neck as another man strangles him. „Ist hat…" „Aramis!" D'Artagnan ist he first to start running, causing the others to curse and then follow his example. They no longer care about the danger around them, the possibility to be recognized. Their brother needs them. Now.

D'Artagnan pushes the front door open and runs along the corridor, just to stop at the door which has to lead to the room they just had seen through the window. The Gascon throws his body against the wood, falling into the room along with the door. Porthos and Athos are right on his heels, storming into the room, now armed with stolen swords and daggers.

Athos takes in the situation fastly. Five guards plus the man who still kneels on his brothers back, but has stopped strangled him. The man beneath him is deathly still, Athos can't see if he's still breathing.

Porthos, having only eyes for the prone form of his brother, doesn't even try to fight. With ease he pushes one guard into the waiting blade of d'Artagnan and rushes to Aramis's side. The man on top of him then draws a gun, pointing it at the marksmans head.

D'Artangnan and Athos make short process with the guards, killing the untrained men with ease. The man holding Aramis down, has his gun still pointed at the man, daring Porthos to make a wrong move. But with the risk to have his friend killed, the big man doesn't move an inch, eyes fixed angrily on the thread in front of him.

Fortunatly, the man is so focused on Porthos and Aramis, that he doesn't notice d'Artagnan taking a gun from one oft he dead guards. But before the Gascon can pull the trigger, Athos shakes his head and takes the weapon from they boys hands. A shot would surely bring the attention of the whole estate onto them.

Athos thinks about throwing his dagger, but should he miss, it would mean death for his friend – if he was still alive. Aramis still hasn't moved yet. As the Captain makes an decision and walks forward, his sword pointed at the man ontop of his friend. „Don't move!" The man then shouts, pointing the weapon from Aramis to Athos.

Before any of the soldiers can react, there's an sudden movement. Aramis pushes the gun out of the man's hand, before managing to kick him with his knee into the face. Not thinking about any consequences, Athos pushes his sword into the shocked man's chest.

Mmmmmmmmmmm

As he wakes up, it's the sounds of battle that reach him first. As he manages to open his eyes, theres not much to see but a wall. Aramis is just about to move to see more of what's happening around him, as he feels the familiar coldness of a barrel against his temple. He closes his eyes, as the man ontop of him speaks, pushing his knee hahrder agianst his back. Aramis holds back a groan, as he listens tot he german man shout with an thick accent. The marksman dares again to open his eyes a bit, noticing that the weapon is not longer pointed at him. He carefully turns his head, his blurry vision allowing him to see the gun pointed at someone different. He doesn't recognize the other man, but he can't be worse than the man kneeling on him. Aramis puzzled mind manages to focus a bit more, and adding one and one, he understands that whoever is threatened right now, is there to help him. So he gathers all the strength that is left in his abused body, to push the gun aside and lift his knee, hitting his attackeers face.

This simple movement leaves him panting, as he rolls on his back, finally able to breath freely.

He hears his name being called, the voice kind of familiar, but he doesn't know where he had heard it before. He closes his eyes again, way too tired to care what's happening now. He flinches as a hand is placed onto his cheek, but then the voice speaks again. He doesn't hear the words, but the sound alone causes him too relax. He feels safe.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

„Aramis," Porthos kneels besie his brother immediatly, patting his cheek gently. „Hey 'Mis, it's not the right time for a nap. Do you hear me Aramis? It's us, D'Artagnan, Athos and Porthos." As his brothers doesn't respond and just seems to drift away even more, the big man sighs. „You're save now." He mutters and then takes the way too light body of his friend onto his arms. „We're getting you home now." Porthos promises as he follows Athos and d'Artagnan out of the room.

They just have to get away from here before anyone finds the corpses.


	27. Chapter 27

Eventhough he had lost some weight over the past weeks, carrying the limb body of his brother still isn't an easy act. Porthos, with his friend in his arms, walks behind Athos and in front of d'Artagnan, each one praying that no one will get suspecious seeing three guards carrying a slave. At least, no one has found the corpses yet. As they search the house for an exit on the backside only one other human being crosses their paths. It's obviously another slave, carrying trays of food and wine. Noticing the well-worn uniforms of the three musketeers, the slave doesn't dare to look at them anylonger.

D'Artagnan can't hold back a sigh, the urge to help these poor men is growing in him with very minute. But there is no way they could help without risking a war – they've risked too much already.

„There." Athos whispers as he points at a door around the corner, yellowish light shing through it and bathing the dark corridor in a candle-like light. The three of them hurry out off the door and into the outside, their shoulder sink with relief as they find their horses where they had left them hours before.

„They should be fit enough too ride hard for a while." D'Artagnan exclaims as he helps Porthos lift the still motionless body of Aramis onto the horses' back. „Have you found injuries?" The Gascon then asks as he mounts up and gives the beast a kick, causing it to run. Porthos, who sits behind Aramis, can't ride as fast as usually, not wanting to risk his brother to fall down. The big man shouts over the sound oft he hooves. „No! No blood. Only the bruises `round his throat!" 

Aramis awakes sometime after the farm vanished in the distance and the sun had coloured the sky in orange.

„Good morning, sleeping beauty." Porthos laughs, causing the marksman to rip his tired eyes open and turn his head to his brother. „Porthos!" His voice is rough and barely a whisper, as the red bruises around his throat indicate the abuse of his vocal chords. Aramis turns around, taking in his surroundings. The feeling of confusion and irritation turns into one of relief and happiness. Something, he hadn't felt in weeks. „You came."

Athos let's his horse fall back to ride beside his brothers, a slight smile playing around his lips. „Do you thought we would leave you alone? Not even running to africa can save you from us." Aramis laughs, before he winces at the pain the action caused in his throat.

„You shouldn't talk too much." D'Artagnan says concerned, before he points at a small lake, which is surrounded by a few trees and bushes. „Let's rest there for the night."

Aramis frowns as his eyes look at the sun. „We still have some hours of daylight left." He doesn't want to rest, not yet. He want to rest once he is back in Paris, back home – not here in some foreign country. „Where even are we?" As he once again looks around, there is not more to see than the lake. Sand, sun, sky.

„Cameroon." Porthos answers as he stops their horse in front of one oft he trees and dismounts despite the protest of his friend.

„There is not much water in this country, we really should take every opportunity to rest. Besides, we have enough time left before our ship leaves. Let's take it slow." Athos bounds the horses to the three before he takes the waterskins out oft he saddlebags and refills them, while the others settle down in the sand.

„Are there any injuries we should know about?" D'Artagnan then asks as he thankfully takes the full skin and gulps down as much as possible.

Aramis takes a careful sip, but his brusied throat doesn't allow many gulps without pain. „I don't think so." He asseses his body as if he was someone different, taking in the several bruises on his body as fort he first time. Then, his eyes stop at his right wrist. „Or maybe there is." He sighs, not liking to burden his brothers any more, but if he ever wants to use his hand again it has to be setted.

Porthos carefully takes his friends arm into his lap, observing the swollen wrist and wrong positioned bone. „What shall we do?" The big man asks, trying to not show the sickness that emerges slowly.

„Set it right. Then take branches as splints."

„What if I don't set it right?"

Aramis offers his brother a weak smile. „Then you will have to do it a second time. But it would be better for both of us if you get it right the first time." Porthos gulps as he looks at his brothers in search for support.

D'Artagnan gets up fastly. „I will get the branches."

Athos then indicats Porthos to make some space for him, so he can sit beside Aramis. „I will do it. Have done it with his foot a few years ago."

Aramis nods his thanks, as it is no secret that Porthos has hands not made to heal but to break. He clenches his jaw tightly, as Athos carefully takes his hand and arm inot his hands. „On three." The Captain announces, not looking up into the pale face of his friend.

Porthos then takes Aramis' uninjured hand. The marksman thanks the gesture with a painfully tight grip, as Athos starts to count. „One." Aramis takes in a deep breath and looks up into the sky. „Two."

Aramis screams. His vision goes white as pain shots through his arm. The tenseness in his body leaves, leaving him slumped against Porthos chest, breathing fast. After a few deep breaths, he manages to open his eyes again. The pain has now changed to a throbbing, filling his whole arm. „That wasn't… three." He mutters, not even noticing how d'Artagnan is suddenly by his side to splint the arm. Athos shrugs, giving him the water skin.

Gratefully, Aramis takes a few sips before he manages to sit up straight again. „How long is it already broken?"

„When did I leave france?" D'Artagnan gulps, not wanting to imagine how it has to be to walk around for so long with a broken bone. „Almost two months."

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

It's already night, their fire the only source of light in the darkness. But no one even thinks about sleeping. Aramis, despite his exhaustion, doesn't dare to close his eyes, too scared tha when he opens them again his brothers would be gone again. The marksman leans against one of the trees as he studies the stars above them.

„You seem as if you haven't seen stars for ages." Porthos huffs, after havinng watched his brother for quite some time now. Aramis doesn't take his eyes from the sky as he replies with a rough voice. „Haven't seen them for two months." 

Silence hungs over the small camp, until d'Artagnan dares to break it, his question quiet and unsure. Scared of the answer, he looks at Aramis, who finally takes his eyes from the stars. „What happened the time you were gone?"

Aramis licks his dry lips. He knew this question would come. There is not much he can tell them. Most of time on the sea is nothing more than a blurry memory, the lines between reality and imagination thin – if even there. And then on the farm, not much had happened. He had been careful to keep to himself, to not attract any kid of attention, to just to a good job tob e left alone afterwards. He hadn't talked much in the past weeks and if he did it was tot he blurry images of Marsac or Isabelle. Sometimes even Anne visited him, but he can't recall the details of their conversations.

„First we were on the ship. I – I actually tried to take over it at some point. Didn't work out well." Aramis shudders at the memorie of commplete loneliness and darkness. „They kept me in a cell for the rest oft he journey." He decides that it's not necessary for his brothers to know every detail. „Then, we were brought to this farm. I worked there in the quarry in the beginning. You know, digging, searching gold, that sort of things."

„Why where you in the estate, why did they try to kill you?" Aramis smiles at d'Artagnan's usual curiosity. „After a while they brought me into the cellar with some other men. We… we cutted the bodies, so they could be burned easier. With my hand I became more a burden than a help. So they decided to better get rid of me."

„These bastards." Porthos fist against the trunk of a tree causes some birds to fly away in panic.

„Where did they bring you?" Aramis suddenly remembers the last time he had seen the Gascon, the pain he had felt for not being able. He remembers how he had pleade Porthos to find the boy, and he can't be more grateful that he did. The marksman also feels a sparkle of guilt as he hadn't thought of it earlier. He was too cought in his own pain and sorrow, that he hadn't thought about the well being of his brothers. He hadn't even asked if they were ijured in the fight.

And he doesn't miss as d'Artagnan avoids his gaze and searches for something – for anything – to look at but not him. „What happened?" Aramis asks again, the concern coming tot he surface, his heart beating faster in fear. And as silence ist he answer, Porthos and Athos shaking their heads slowly – d'Artagnan has to tell this story – it's everything he needs to know.

„Oh god, no." He crawlsover to the Gascon, taking the boys shaking hand in his uninjured one. „I'm sorry, mon ami. I'm sorry. I should have saved you from this, I should have fought harder. This was never allowe to happen to you." Aramis gulps as d'Artagnan pulls his hand out oft he gently grip, but still doesn't look at the marksman but onto the ground.

„It's not your fault, 'Mis."

The marksman studies the boys face for a few moments, noticing the dull eyes and the dark bags beneath them. Why hadn't he seen them before? But this is not about him, but about d'Artagnan. So he ignores the guilt in his heart. „And you know, it's not yours either, do you?" D'Artagnan stays silent, his hand playing with the sand.

„It's not your fault, d'Artagnan!" Aramis says more urgently, carefully grabing the boys cheeks to force him to look him in the eyes. „It's not your fault." Aramis repeats once again as their eyes meet, his voice shaking just as much as the Gascon's body.

„But it feels like it was." Neither Porthos nor Athos dare to interrupt the conversation as they stay behind in silence, watching how Aramis wraps his arms around the boyy and pulls him to his chest. It's the first embrace since the Gascon had left the brothel and Porthos wonders if he should have tried it before. He never wanted to touch the lad without his approval, as he flinched at every slight touch. But now, as the Gascon hides his face in the marksman's shoulder, it seems that a hug was everything he ever needed.

And Aramis seems to need it to.

 **Made it to 100 pages in word! I haven't written such a long story for years, and it's the first one I really enjoy writing till it's end.  
** **Thank you for all your lovely reviews, they really inspire and motivate me and never fail to make me smile. Keep going.**


	28. Chapter 28

_I'm missing " Whumptober " so much already! There were so many good and ongoing storys, and now...? I have nothing left to read... would love some good recommendations from you._

Not long after their first day of riding, Porthos started to count the hours till their arrival at the harbor.  
As they passed a small village, which they have seen as they still had searched for Aramis, Porthos knew that it will probably take two more days.

It had been yesterday that they had passed the village, as time couldn't pass any slower for the big musketeer. As fort he hundreth time on their journey, he rips his eyes from the back of his Captain and turns around to watch out for his two long lost brothers. Neither Aramis nor d'Artagnan had talked much to the other two since days. They stick together as if someone had tied the reigns of their horses together. Often they stayed silent, lost in their thoughts, but sometimes Porthos heard them talking quietly. As he looks at them now, they don't notice him as they seem lost in their conversation. He doesn't know what they're talking about, but none of them has the lightness and happiness on their faces they used to have.

Porthos had tried to talkt o them, asked occassionaly what they whispered about, but they just shrugged it off with some comment. After all these horrible weeks, in which the concern for his friends controlled his thoughts and feelings, he finally got all of them back. But it seems as if they were as far from him as ever before.

He sighs, turns back around and spurs his horse to ride beside his Captain. „What is it they won't talk about with us?" He huffs, looking back one more time to see his brothers silent again, their eyes fixed on the ground.

Athos, as stoic as always, shrugs his shoulders and answers without looking at Porthos. „They now share something with each other, we probably won't ever be able to understand."

„But I understand! I understand that they are troubled after all of this. I understand that all of this was hard fort hem, traumatic even… that it may have broken something inside them. I won't judge them, I really want to listen. But they aren't even giving me the chance to understand, as they just build these walls around them." 

„I know Porthos, I know you just want to help, that you try to understand. But I do believe, there are things you can only understand when you have experienced them. You may say you understand what all of this did to them, but do you really know how Aramis had felt as he was all this time seperated from us and enslaved? Do you really know how d'Artagnan has to feel, after…?" Athos shakes his head, frustrated. He knows what Porthos means. He wants to help his brothers just as much, but he can't and he won't force them.

At least they now have each other.

„Do you think they will ever recover?" Porthos then asks, worry now replaces frustration.

„Physically – yes, I do think so. Even if I don't know about Aramis' hand, but he wills urely be fine, as he always is. Mental – I'm not sure. Can you really ever recover from something like this? I think you can try to forget and move on and the memories will fade, but no, I don't think it will ever end completly. You know that Aramis still suffers from Savoy, you still remember your mothers death, d'Artagnan still griefs for his father." And I still can't forget who I once was, Athos adds in his mind.

Porthos gulps, glancing back one more time. „Do you – do you think it will be as bad as after Savoy?" He couldn't stand to see Aramis again like this… like a living corpse, wandering around like a shell without it's soul. Without hope, happiness, strength. But on the other hand the marksman doesn't seem to be that bad. Exhausted, yes. Troubled, of course. But not lost in the dark memoriest hat had haunted him years ago. Who still troubled him more was d'Artagnan, they boy seems more affected by all these events as the others.

„They will just be fine." Athos then assures, offerng his comrade a weak smile. He isn't sure if to believe his own words, but someone has to be optimistic. His brothers will need help, strength and hope and they can't afford to be lost in concern. They have to be strong for them now. Everything will be fine, he hopes. Someday, they will be back to themselves.

Mmmmmmmmm

After selling their stolen horses at the port, the four musketeers make their way over to the ship.

The Captain only greets them shortly, telling Athos that they will have the same cabinet as the first time, before shouting orders to his sailors. They want to leave today as they had already sold their goods and want to be back in france just as badly as the musketeers.

The moment his feet make contact with the wooden floor, Aramis feels hi schest tighten painfully. As they enter the dark room, where Athos lightens a few candles and his brothers settle down on their beds, he stands frozen in the doorway. Only as he notices a suspicous glance from Porthos on his unmoving form, Aramis forces his feet to walk inside the horrible small room and sits down on the last free bed. Actually, the room isn't that small as it offers enough space for four beds, a table and just as many chairs. But as Athos closes the door, because rain started to come into the room, Aramis feels as if there was no oxygen left.

He tries to take faster breaths without the others noticing, as Porthos rants about how much he hates ships and storms. Aramis tries to listen tot he grounding voice of his brother, eventhough their meaning don't reach his mind. He decided it's better to lay down, as dizziness overcomes him.

As dark spots dance in front of his closed eyes – when had he closed them? – he notices that the voice of his brother is gone. It's silence and darkness. Again.

„What's wrong with him?" Porthos whispers as he notices the fast breathing of his friend. „Aramis?" The marksman doesn't respond but clenches the sheets beneath him with his uninjured hand. „Not again," he whimpers as he clenches his eyes shut.

D'Artagnan frowns and slowly walks over to the marksman, sitting down on the edge oft he bed carefully. „Aramis?" He asks, but again his friend won't answwer. Athos and Porthos follow the example of their younges and gather around the bed oft he panicking musketeer. „Aramis!" Porthos now tries louder and lays his hand on the shoulder of his friend., causing him to gasp for air and rip his eyes open in shock. „It's okay, you're save." D'Artagnan says calmly as he takes Aramis' hand in his own. The marksman needs a few moments to gather his bearings, until he slumps against the Gascons shoulder. „I'm sorry." Aramis mutters, his eyes searching the ones of his brothers.

„What for?" Porthos frowns, settling down on a chair nearby. But the marksman doesn't answer, maybe he doesn't know what he's sorry for himself, as he stands up a bit too fast. „I need fresh air." Not giving his brothers the time to protest, Aramis leaves the room, leaning against the railing and taking in the last hours of sunlight and fresh air.

„What was that?" Porthos asks, searching for answers in his friends faces.

„I think he hadn't told us everything that had happened to him."  
Silence. The two musketeers thinking, trying to make out what could have triggered Aramis behaviour until a quiet voice interrupts their thoughts.

„He was kept in a dark cell, completly alone for almost the whole time on the ship." D'Artagnan fumbles with his fingers, not sure if he was allowed to spell this secre the marksman had told him.

„It had to be weeks!" Porthos exclaims shocked. Athos rubs his neck, as he leans against the wall, his eyes fixes on the door. „There's no way you stay isolated for weeks and get out completly sane." 

„But he seemed fine." Porthos frowns, not wanting to acknowledge that his brother may be worth than thought.

„It's Aramis. He can hide his injuries well, too well sometimes." 

**So this story is slowly coming to it's end as they're coming closer to home.  
I never would have thought that I would come that far and would get so many lovely reviews from you! Thank you very much.**

 **I'm still not sure how to go on with this story, as I never thought about the end exactly… it's one of many reasons why I'm taking longer and longer to update.**


	29. Chapter 29

As he Wales up, he's greeted with soft voices mumbling. He still has his eyes closed but can make out that it's currently Athos who's speaking. Somehow the Gascon has the feeling he's not supposed to hear the words of his brothers. A part of his mind tells him to show them that he's awake and listening, but another, stronger part forces him to stay silent. So he tries to keep his breathing low as he listens to the familiar voices.

"It's been days and none of them has spoken a word! Maybe to each other but not to me."

"Give them time, Porthos. They will recover and everything will be the same."

Silence follows and D'Artagnan wishes he could break it. But he can't. Porthos' misery is his fault and he wishes he could change it, but again - he can't. He had promised them to talk once Aramis was back with them, to let the wall fall down and start healing. But he can't. How is he supposed to talk about what had happened when he can't even think about it? He doesn't want to talk, he just wants to forget. But that is something god won't grand him. It doesn't care how often he washes himself, he will still feel dirty afterwards.

And if he can't even stand to live with himself anymore and can't endure to look his brothers in the eyes - how should he voice the events that still follow him in his nightmares.

"What if not?" There's a break in the big musketeers voice that shattered D'Artagnan's heart into pieces. It was his fault. And he starts to ask himself the same question. What if he never can overcome this? What if he will ever feel so... wrong? He shudders at the thought that he will have to face Constance, that she will know what had happened to him. How is he supposed to ever share a bed with her again?

"Then we will have to be there to try to make them as alright as they can be."

"I'm not sure that I will be able to endure this for forever, Athos..." The man speaks so quietly that D'Artagnan barely understands him, but as he holds his breath, he does. He can't listen anylonger, so he decides to turn onto his side as loud as possible and opens his eyes, causing the two man on the other side of the room to turn around. There's a glimpse of pain in their eyes, but it dies down the moment they smile at him gently.

"You're awake." Porthos says and tries to sound gently, as fear of what the lad may has heard rises.


	30. Chapter 30

The journey had been long, exhausting, boring. And Porthos can't stop noticing the relief in his heart as he sits down on the comfortable back of a horse, feeling the hooves hitting the dry and steady ground. He had always hated the sea, ships and everything that had to do with them but this travel was worse than anything he had ever experienced before. It hadn't been only the endless storms, nor the hot days, not even the terrible food they were offered.

What had been the worst of all was the tensed mood in their shared cabin. The silence, the whispers, the cries, screams.

He had never felt so alone or excluded as in the past weeks. Despite his promise, d'Artagnan hadn't talked yet to Athos or him. Maybe to Aramis, but who knew as they stopped their chat once one of the others came into the room.

Athos always had said: "Give them time." But Porthos had never been a patient man. He wanted them to get better, to talk and most of all: talk to HIM.

He wouldn't admit it, but he can't ignore the fury that lingers in his heart. During their endless seeming journey the concern for his brothers got pushed back more and more to be replaced by his own pain and fury. He was their brother, and especially Aramis had been the most important person in his life since he joined the musketeers. He had thought it would be the other way around the same, but slowly he thought he may have been wrong all this time. Aramis obviously didn't need him or didn't trust him enough to share his experiences with him.

All this weeks of traveling, after selling all his belongings to pay for the ship – and Porthos hadn't heard a "Thank you" yet. It hurts and he can't ignore the stinging in his heart.

"You're brooding again." To others Athos looks at him without any interest, but Porthos could see the worry flash in his eyes. "It's nothing." He answers and spurs his horse, he just wants to reach Paris.

"Doesn't look like nothing." Athos looks back as if to ask 'is it because of them?' and Porthos nods, hating that his brothers knows him so well. "Give them-" "No Athos! I don't want to hear it. They had enough time! It had been almost two months! I know they may need more to really overcome all of this, but it had been certainly enough time to open up to us again! We're their brothers." He exhales audible as his heart races in his chest. "It had been long enough." He ads now more calmly. Athos nods, he understands what Porthos means, on the other hand: who is he to judge? 

"Remember years ago? As it were still only Aramis, you and me?" Porthos nods, raising his brow as he tries to make out where Athos' is going with this.

"Had you been angry with Aramis then? The weeks after Savoy, the months? God, he still hasn't told us everything about it yet! It had been years and still you're not angry because of it. Why now?" 

Porthos chews his lip, his eyes glancing down at the reins between his fingers. "You weren't angry as I didn't tell you about Anne. You're no man that is easily peevish, so why now?" 

"Because this is different, 'Thos. It's not about talking about what exactly had happened, you know I won't ever force them to this. It's about their behaviour, how they're closing up, excluding us. It doesn't even seem as they want to be alone – it's just that they – that they don't want to be with US. What have we done?"

"I'm no medic or healer, mon ami. I have no idea how the mind works, why humans do what they do. But what I know is that neither d'Artagnan nor Aramis intend to exclude us, that they don't feel any grudge against us. Give them some more time, if nothing changes we will talk to them. Alright?"

Porthos agrees, even though he isn't quite comfortable with the plan. He wants that everything is back to like it had always has been, and he wants it now.

MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM

"Shouldn't have it healed already?" Athos asks from the opposite of the fire, following Aramis' quick fingers as they dress his hand. The marksman seems focused on his task and ignores the question intentional. Because answering it would mean he would have to lie to his brothers or face reality – and he just couldn't do this now.

"Aramis?" Porthos asks concerned at his brothers silence – even though he should have got used to it by now.

"I'm no physician. It's beyond my knowledge." Aramis grits through his teeth, and it's not completely a lie but not completely the truth either. He may not be a doctor but he had enough experience with injuries to know.

Porthos and Athos share a worried look, but as none of them could help him with the injury they can't do much. They will send him do a doctor once they're back in Paris. As there was no help Aramis would accept and not really one they could offer right now, they go back to planning their route for the next day.

"If we're lucky we could reach Paris tomorrow evening. If not, we should stop there." Athos points at a Inn they had visited several times when it had already gone dark before they were able to reach the walls of Paris in time.

"It feels like a lifetime ago as we were last there." Porthos admits, all the events that had happened running through his mind. He shudders and is grateful that it is finally over.

"Four months. Too much misery for such a short time." Ads Athos, his eyes scanning d'Artagnan how was already asleep.

"It's over now. "

Athos forces his lips to twitch in something like a smile, before it vanishes as fast as it came. D'Artagnan began to whimper in his sleep, nightmares once again seeking his dreams. "You think it will really ever be over?"


	31. Chapter 31

"We should stop there" D'Artagnan points at the familiar Inn to their right side.

Porthos frowns, his eyes rushing from the Inn to D'Artagnan and then to the road ahead. "It's not getting dark anytime soon. If we push on we will reach Paris when the sun sets."

"I agree with D'Artagnan. The horses are tired, we won't make it in time." Aramis fiddles with the reins in his hand as Athos shakes his head. "I want to got home and we still have some hours of daylight left. It would be unnecessary to stop now."

"We haven't eaten anything today. We should take some time to get a proper meal and some rest." D'Artagnan explains, but Athos sees the uncertainly in his eyes. He decides to give in, he guesses there is more behind the wish of d'Artagnan and Aramis as he can understand now. Sighing, Athos leads his horse towards the Inn. "Alright. One night more from home, what does it matter after four months?" 

Porthos grumbles something the others can't understand, but it's obviously that he doesn't agree with this decision.

The food was warm and good as always. The owner of the Inn, a nice elderly woman gave them the best rooms as she knew the musketeers from several occasions.

"Athos, D'Artagnan you take a room together, and Aramis and I will share." Porthos decides as they walk up the stairs. He notices the look d'Artagnan and Aramis change, but none of them dares to argue with him. Since days Porthos was tensed and short-tempered. So they split into pairs and close the doors behind them. Aramis takes the bed closest to both, the door and the window. There's no need to ask, as Porthos know about the troubles the man had with closed doors since his journey towards Africa. Besides, there are currently other things on his mind.

"Why don't you want to go home?"

Aramis has his back turned to his friend as he stood in front of the bed. The question lets him freeze, only for a second before he catches himself again and sits on the edge of the bed, facing Porthos. "Why do you think that? Of course I want to go home."

Porthos sits on his own bed, staring at his brother, giving him no chance to retreat. "You're the most experienced of us when it comes to long journeys and routes. You know just as well as Athos and me that we could have made it easily to Paris today. So why did to take d'Artagnan's side and insisted to stop here?" 

"The horses were-" "Just fine." Porthos' eyes stay fixed on his brother, as he is determined to finally get some answers. Both, Aramis and d'Artagnan had enough time, they finally have to talk.

Aramis pushes some stains out of his face, something Porthos know he does when he's nervous.

"What are you trying to avoid, mon ami?" Porthos asks now more softly. Aramis denies to look him in the face, instead he decides to look out of the window. "Really it's nothing." 

"I've known you long enough to know that there is something you're trying to avoid. Or is it d'Artagnan? Are you trying to protect him? But from what? He was the one who insisted to stop here first. Is he trying to hide from something?" 

Porthos watches his friend intently, doesn't miss how he bites on his lips and fiddles with the blanket beneath him. "Constance."

"He's hiding from Constance?" Porthos frowns as Aramis nods, sighing. "I'm not supposed to tell you."

"Just do it! We can't help either of you if you don't start talking to us! Closing up like you did doesn't get us anywhere!" 

Aramis pushes his hair back again. "He's ashamed. He doesn't know how he's supposed to look her in the eyes, touch her."

"Constance will understand." Porthos assures. There's no woman he knows is more sympathetic as Constance. But Aramis shakes his head. "No. He doesn't want her to know. He fears she could be disgusted by him, that she would leave him. He feels… dishonoured." 

"That's fucking bullshit! Nothing of this is his fault! He can't hide forever. Moreover it' not fair towards Constance. She's surely horrible worried at the moment. She doesn't deserve to be lied to. Surely she will understand when we explain to her what happened."

"I know that, mon ami. But d'Artagnan doesn't. He's scared, don't you understand that? I just wanted to give him some more time before we're back in Paris." 

"You should've told us." Porthos frowns as Aramis lies down and turns his back towards him. "I'm tired. Goodnight." Is all he get's as an answer. He opens his mouth to say something, but no words come out at the obvious rejection of his friend.

MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM

D'Artagnan is glad to share his room with Athos. He may have been happier with Aramis, but at least it isn't Porthos. Athos doesn't ask questions and doesn't look at him hurt when he doesn't answer. Athos just lets him alone and gives him space. On the other hand he feels bad for Aramis, as he will surely be questioned by Porthos.

D'Artagnan can understand that Porthos wants answers, but the man has to get into his head that there are things men can't talk about. Not even Aramis knows exactly what had happened to him. Despite the believes of Athos and Porthos, Aramis and he doesn't talk much about it. He knows maybe some more things, but it's far from everything. But Aramis doesn't push him, he just listens and understands.

 _When they sat around the fire, the others already asleep, d'Artagnan had told the marksman how he felt about their return to Paris, about his fears. And instead of answering the always same and dull things, like 'Everything will be just fine', 'she will understand', he only nod and placed a hand on his shoulder._

 _Because he understood – not what had happened to him, but that he was scared and ashamed and no words could heal the wounds in his heart._

 _"Are you looking forward to Paris?" D'Artagnan then had asked carefully. Aramis had only smiled wearily, before his gaze fell on the useless hand in his lap. "I don't know. Everything's quite mixed up, you know. What's awaiting me there? My family is with me already." He looked over to their sleeping brothers and sighed. "They will send me to a doctor."_

 _"Your hand will just be fine." D'Artagnan tried but didn't miss the fear in the marksman's eyes. Something he saw in them lately way to often for a man like Aramis, who hadn't been scared of anything before. And now he was haunted by memories, pain and fear. Closed rooms, dark spaces, being alone. Everything seemed to trigger him, made him scream in his sleep and made him panic. That wasn't the Aramis he had used to know. On the other side – who was he to judge? D'Artagnan had changed too, he knew it. And he wished to be able to be just like before and he tried, he really had tried. But he just couldn't stop the disgust he felt when he thought abut what had happened, couldn't hide the shame he felt._

"I can talk to Constance if you like." Athos voice rips d'Artagnan from his thoughts, causing him to frown. "What are you talking about?"

Athos had puzzled the parts together, and correctly guessed what was keeping d'Artagnan from returning home. "Constance won't judge you. If you think this, it would insult her. She's far more honourable than most men." 

"I will think over your offer." D'Artagnan sighs. He doesn't want Constance to know, if he could he would hide from her forever. But just as much as he can't imagine to tell her what had happened, he can't imagine to live without her.


	32. The End

As he stands on the balcony, hands railing, watching as the men train on their swordfight, a wave of nostalgia rushes over him.

From up there everything looks so normal, so familiar. Treville smiles to himself. He's glad that he had come to visit the Garrison. The sound of metal, the smell of leather and horses and the laughter of his men – Athos' men now – reminds him of a better, simpler time.

But he knows it never really had been simple, and it won't ever be. At least they are back. Four months ago les inseperables were gone to a simple mission and never came back. It was a hard time for the regiment without their Captain, and it was also a hard time for Treville. The four men had become more than his musketeers, but more became his sons.

Athos had told him about what had happened – not everything, but the most important things.

This had been two weeks ago.

Now, it looks as they had never been away from home. From up there, from the distance and from they eyes of someone who hadn't known better. But Treville knows better. He sees the weariness in Athos' eyes, the worry on Porthos. He notices the distance between d'Artagnan and Constance and the lack of strength in Aramis' hand. Something is still wrong, maybe something had happened what Athos hadn't told him of. He just hopes that they would get over it.

For now, it is enough that they are back and alive. All of them. And that they are still inseparable. Because, he is certain of it, as long as they are together they can withstand everything. It's their brotherhood that's makes them strong, and the worst that can happen is them being separated. Now, back together and back home, they will heal. Treville knows.

 **That's it.**

 **The end of this story.**

 **In the beginning only the first chapters were planned – I wanted to stop after them. But somehow everything started to roll and just happened… As you may have noticed the last chapters took me some more time and were less enjoyable. I am not happy with the ending, but I couldn't let this story go on any further, as I had no plot anymore. I hope you still enjoyed it and will read my other storys.**

 **I want to thank all of you. Everyone who had read this and came this far and most of all I want to thank all of you who reviewed!**


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